Archive of Our Own ^beta

Chapter Text

Celebrimbor gently guides Maeglin out of the room and hopefully to some rest. Fingon breathes out, wiping at his eyes.

He had been so focused on Maeglin's tear-stained face in front of him, his nephew who has been hurting so much for so long, that the full impact of what he told him has had no chance to sink in. But now, with just him and Maedhros left in the room, he is starting to remember exactly what it is his nephew has said.

Fingon gets to his feet, and turns to Maedhros. "What did Maeglin say to you?" he asks. He clasps his hands behind his back, lacing his fingers together so tightly that it hurts.

Maedhros sighs, and leans up against a desk in the room. "He flinched from you, on the parapet," he says slowly, "because he thought you were Turgon. You do look alike at a glance, beloved," he adds when Fingon instinctively makes a face. "But I think he…beloved, I think he thought he was next."

"He…" Fingon presses the heels of his hands into his eyes. "Turgon killed his father in front of him, Russo. Pushed him off a fucking cliff!" He can't stand still anymore. Maedhros just watches as he paces back and forth across the room. "I…how could he?" Fingon asks.

"Beloved." Maedhros reaches out, but Fingon can't bear to stand still, and Maedhros pulls back after a few moments. "Your sister had just been killed. I know if I saw one of my brothers killed, I would not think rationally."

"Bullshit," Fingon snaps. "You have seen your brothers killed, Russo, you've seen it sixty times, and you still managed to save us all! Turgon could have restrained himself. He should have restrained himself." He rakes his hands through his hair, fingers snagging on his braids. "Maeglin is…how could he do that to him?"

"Finno." Maedhros pushes off the desk and puts himself in Fingon's path. When Fingon goes to just move around him, Maedhros catches him around the waist, reeling him in. Fingon fights him halfheartedly, but ends up wrapped in Maedhros' embrace, his hand smoothing down his back.

"I know, beloved," Maedhros murmurs, and Fingon abruptly realises that he is crying, hitching sobs muffled in Maedhros' shoulder.

"You don't like Turgon that much," Fingon mutters into Maedhros' shoulder. "Why are you taking this so well?"

Maedhros huffs a quiet laugh. "Probably because I am not a particular fan of your brother, and so was not so surprised." He presses a kiss to Fingon's temple. "He's your brother, and you love him, and you feel betrayed."

Fingon pulls back enough to look up at Maedhros. "Maeglin spent decades in that city," he says quietly. "In a city where both his parents were killed in front of him."

"No wonder he doesn't feel safe," Maedhros says. He smooths his hand down Fingon's arm. "But he's in the right place now. We'll make sure of it."

Fingon sighs. "What a fool ," he murmurs, pulling out of Maedhros' embrace to turn to the window. He can see the mountains that hide Gondolin from here, peaks capped with snow. "What a fucking fool. What was he thinking?"

Maedhros sighs. He settles next to Fingon, arm wrapped around his waist. "I don't know, beloved," he says quietly. "I just don't know."

0-o-0-o-0

Fingon knows he can be impulsive. It is something he has worked hard to temper, ever since his father's crown was first set upon his head. He knows it is not a quality required of a king, let alone the High King of the Noldor.

Sometimes, he does not quite manage it. And sometimes, restraint only fuels the long-burning fires.

Maedhros watches from the couch as Fingon paces. His study is its usual mess, parchment spread out across the desk, but he isn't looking at any of them.

"I have to do something."

Maedhros nods. "I know."

"This cannot be allowed to happen again." Fingon rakes his hands through his hair. "Turgon evidently has far too much free reign in Gondolin. We cannot afford such partitions."

Maedhros nods again. "I know."

"Our nephew . He put our nephew in such harm's way." Fingon tugs at his hair, the gold of his braids slipping through his fingers. "I cannot just let this slide. If I do, Maeglin simply will not ever truly trust us."

"The lad has been through a lot," Maedhros says. "He needs a solid foundation, and he needs to know that he can trust us."

Fingon nods. "I'm going to have to do something," he says again.

Maedhros sighs. "Beloved. Are you trying to convince me, or are you trying to convince yourself?"

Fingon stutters to a stop. He's so angry . It's yet another mark against his brother, yet another thing that he cannot ignore. Turgon has set a massively dangerous precedent. He killed a Doriathrim, for all that Ëol was an outcast of his own choosing. He ordered the death of their kin. Not in a moment of terror or fear or darkness, not in the midst of a battle.

Their sister took a day to die. Turgon did not decide upon Ëol's fate on a whim.

Fingon breathes out, and when that doesn’t work, clenches his hands into fists. "I'm so angry. I don't even know where to start with why."

"He endangered our nephew," Maedhros says, his own voice tight. "He set a dangerous precedent, and he killed someone who is not under our laws, endangering any future relationship with the Doriathrim. Those are all good starting points."

Fingon pushes his hair back from his face. "He's my brother."

"And he's your subject," Maedhros counters. "You said it yourself. The High King has to be more than a title now."

Fingon's lips twist. "I don't want to do something rash."

Maedhros sighs. "It's been near a day. I think you have had enough time to think about this. About what steps we can take." He leans forwards, watching Fingon as he paces. "Beloved. You're allowed to be angry."

Fingon shuts his eyes, and try to thinks through the mess that is churning in his mind.

He wants his father to be here. He wants Fingolfin to sit him down and talk him through it all until it all makes sense, wants him to sit with Turgon and find out why he made their nephew watch, why he didn’t think this through. He wants him to come and fix everything, like he had done so many times in Valinor where their disagreements had been nothing but the small fights between siblings, and were solved by a grudging apology from both sides and their mother making them wash the dishes together.

He misses those times so much that it hurts, that it aches so horribly in his chest. He misses his brother.

Fingon sinks down onto a nearby couch, and buries his face in his hands. “I can’t,” he says miserably. “I- Russo, I can’t. He’s my brother . I don’t want to let this break us apart entirely.”

The couch sinks down beside him, and then Maedhros’ arm is wrapped around his shoulder. “Oh, beloved,” he says, pressing a kiss to Fingon’s temple. “What do you want to do?”

“I want to find out exactly what happened,” Fingon gets out. “I want…I want to know why Turgon made, or let, our nephew watch his father be killed, and I want Turgon to understand what that did to him. I want to make sure that this doesn’t come around and threaten us later.” He looks over to Maedhros. “Thingol will use this against us if he finds out exactly what happened, to further drag us through the mud to his people.”

“Do we sanction Turgon?” Maedhros asks. “For what he did?”

Fingon shudders. “I…I don’t know. I want to, instinctively, but…I think I want to punish him for hurting Maeglin, and that’s not fair.” He drops his head back into his hands. “That’s not what the High King does. I- fuck .” He looks over at Maedhros. “You know what I really want?” he asks.

Maedhros rubs his hand up and down Fingon’s back. “Beloved?”

Fingon’s face crumples. “I want my father here,” he gets out, tears spilling out down his cheeks. “I want him to be here, and I want him to just- I want him to tell me what to do! I want him to talk to Turgon and try and fix whatever it is that has broken here. But he’s gone, and we’re all alone here.”

“You’re not alone,” Maedhros says firmly. “You are not .” He presses another kiss to Fingon’s head. “I love you so much,” he murmurs against his hair. “I do. Because your nephew has been hurt, and you’re angry and worried for him, and in amongst all of this you still love your brother so much that you’re not willing to wreck your relationship with him, and you love your people so much that you’re thinking through every avenue to try and find the best outcome through all of this.” His arm tightens around Fingon, holding him close. “Whatever you want to do, I will support. And for what it’s worth, your father couldn’t be doing any better than you are now. I’m sure of that.”

Fingon wipes the tears away from his cheeks, and breathes out. It’s shaky, but something is beginning to settle in his mind. “I need parchment, and quill and ink,” he says. “And someone needs to tell Glorfindel to come to my study this afternoon. I need to understand exactly what happened.”

0-o-0-o-0

Fingon dresses in robes of royal blue, wrapping a belt of gold around his waist. He sets his circlet on his head, tucking his braids back behind his face.

In the mirror, he looks like his father.

He breathes through the grief that still catches him by surprise, and tries not to let anger nip at his heels as he leaves.

There is a knock in the door, and then Idhron enters. "Lord Glorfindel," he says.

Glorfindel steps into the room. He is dressed fairly simply, his long blonde hair merely pulled back in a plait, and he looks slightly taken aback at Fingon's appearance. "You wanted to see me?" he asks.

Fingon gestures at the seat across the desk from him. "Sit down, please."

Glorfindel does so, looking slightly bemused. "It occurs to me," Fingon says, "that we have not formalised your position here in Barad Eithel. You have been acting as an ambassador and advisor on Gondolindrim affairs, of sorts, whilst aiding Ecthelion in his recovery. I would like to make that position more permanent."

Glorfindel frowns. "I would have to write to Turgon, of course, but I would be happy to accept the position."

Fingon hums. "Good. In that case, I would like you to explain the events of my sister's arrival in Gondolin, her death and the subsequent death of Ëol. As much detail as you can, please."

Glorfindel frowns, but nods. "Of course." He clears his throat, and starts talking.

Most of the start of his tale, Fingon has heard already. Turgon did not spare much detail in recounting the events that led to Aredhel's death, the weapon Ëol had secreted on his person into Gondolin, how Aredhel jumped in front of Maeglin to save his life. Glorfindel's voice is hushed as he recounts it, not quite meeting Fingon's gaze.

"It is inexcusable," he says quietly. "That Ëol managed to secrete a weapon in, that we missed it. And that Aredhel was the one to suffer for it."

Fingon breathes through the piercing ache in his chest. "What happened next?"

"Aredhel was taken to the King's House, and our healers treated her to the best of her ability," Glorfindel says. "But it became apparent that the wound was poisoned, and she would not survive." He shakes his head, his eyes misty. "Maeglin sat with her all night, and Turgon sat with her for many hours as well. I stayed without, until she…" His lips twist. "Following that, Ëol was sentenced, and the sentence carried out."

Fingon holds up one hand. He cannot afford to be distracted by his grief. "Explain that in more detail. When was Ëol sentenced? Who did so?"

Glorfindel frowns. "Turgon decided upon his sentence, once she had died. It was…" He thinks for a moment, and then nods. "We knew she had died when Turgon left her room. Maeglin stayed behind, and we-"

"Who?"

"Myself, Ecthelion, Turgon, Rog, Elgamoth and a number of guards." Glorfindel frowns again. "Why all the questions, Fingon? What is this?"

"Was it a consensus?" Fingon asks. He is struggling now to keep his voice even. Beneath the desk, he digs his fingers into his thigh. "The decision of Ëol's sentencing? When was it decided?"

"Turgon discussed it with us, but the decision was his," Glorfindel says, his frown deepening. "As for when? Perhaps five or six hours after Aredhel's passing. Ëol was sentenced to death maybe a few hours after that. It took us a while to actually get him up to the cliffs."

Fingon nods. "What is this, Fingon?" Glorfindel asks. "Why are you asking?"

Fingon folds his hands on the desk. The ink on the parchment beneath them has barely finished drying. “I was unaware of the details of Ëol’s death, when Turgon told me of Aredhel’s fate following the Galad Lain. I was unaware that he made our nephew watch , and made him feel so unsafe in Gondolin for all those years following.” Glorfindel goes to speak, and Fingon holds up his hand. “Let me finish. The issue of the harm done to our nephew is one between myself and Turgon. But the issue of Ëol’s death? That is something that as the High King, I must address.”

Glorfindel seems to have realised that this is not entirely a talk between friends. He straightens in his chair. “Turgon deemed the punishment to fit the crime,” he replies. “For the death of his sister, Ëol had to pay in like.”

“If I were to persecute Turgon for the killing of another Elda, then most of us in these lands would have to stand trial,” Fingon says wryly. “I’m not about to do that. I’m not about to retroactively charge Turgon for what he did. Gondolin is his domain, and I do not wish to take that from him. But there must be oversight, Glorfindel. There must be continuity between us all. And I must guard against attempts by others to use the death of their kin as a reason to spurn our attempts at negotiations.”

“What will you do?” Glorfindel asks. “What will you have me do?”

Fingon looks down at the parchment beneath his hands. “I need you to write a comprehensive account of what happened, from the moment that Aredhel and Maeglin arrived in Gondolin, up to and including Ëol’s death, and there are certain moments that you must be very clear on.”

“Fingon?” Glorfindel asks.

Fingon sighs, and meets Glorfindel’s gaze. “I need you to be clear that Aredhel’s death, or at least Maeglin’s attempted death, was premeditated. Ëol secreted a poisoned weapon into Gondolin. To me, that says that he intended to use it, and that he intended to kill with it. I also need you to give a comprehensive account of the discussions over Ëol’s sentence. Make it clear that you spent a long time discussing this until carrying out the sentence, amongst the lords of Gondolin, and that Turgon seeked your counsel.” He glances back down at his list. “I then need Ecthelion to write an account of his own, or dictate it to someone. Not you,” he says quickly. “The accounts must be independent of each other. Word needs to be sent to Turgon that he and the rest of those involved must also write accounts, and send them to me.”

“I don’t quite follow,” Glorfindel says bluntly, his brow furrowed. “Why do you need this?”

“Because I need proof that when this happened, it followed our laws,” Fingon says succinctly. “The laws that I have spent the past morning hurriedly drafting, because of the position my brother has put us in. You do understand, don’t you, the position this has put us in?”

"But he- he killed Aredhel ," Glorfindel protests. "Your sister! He wanted revenge, wanted justice-"

"And he bent our laws to do so," Fingon says firmly. "He may be King of Gondolin, but he is not High King of the Noldor. What shall I do if Doriath comes asking for reparations? What should I have done if Maeglin did so?"

"He wouldn't," Glorfindel protests quickly. "He is Noldor, he has lived in Gondolin for decades, he-"

"Watched the uncle he had never met order his father to be killed," Fingon says sharply. "We have been lucky , Glorfindel, that Maeglin does not hold a grudge. That he is as kind and as brilliant as anyone could have ever hoped for. But I cannot let this lie. Doriath holds the third Silmaril, and is the only people in Beleriand who we are not allied with, and though the threat of Morgoth is the weakest it has ever been, it has not left completely. Our hold on peace is still precarious, and I will not see it jeopardised by infighting amongst us.”

Glorfindel is quiet for a long moment. “I will confess, Fingon, that such worries had not crossed my mind. Gondolin is peaceful, and safe , but…this past year, it has become somewhat clear that there was a price to pay for that safety.” He shakes his head, his face troubled. “What your healers have done here for Ecthelion has been more than could ever have been done in Gondolin. We have not learned , Fingon, not in the way that you have here.”

“At a price,” Fingon says heavily. “We have lost many to dragonfire as our healers learned how best to treat the burns.”

“Everything comes at a price, in these lands,” Glorfindel replies. “What do I write to Turgon?”

“I thought of summoning him back,” Fingon says. “He should only be two days out from here, given the pace they are probably riding. Should I bring him back here?”

Glorfindel hesitates. “Perhaps,” he admits. “He is my lord and I love him, but Turgon…a letter may not be enough.” He meets Fingon’s gaze. “He will not take it kindly if you ask him to fling open Gondolin’s gates.”

“I won’t, not immediately,” Fingon replies. “I’m aware of the contention between us there, and I have little desire to push it that far. But I will be refining our laws on this matter, and appointing an ambassador of my choosing to Gondolin, who will reside there and answer to me.”

Glorfindel nods. “I will send a messenger to catch up with Turgon and his retinue,” he says. “And tell Ecthelion of what is to be done.” He gets to his feet, and bows his head. “My lord.”

Fingon watches him go. He remains upright at his desk until the latch falls on the door, and then gives in. The wood of the table is cool beneath his forehead.

Another door, off to the side, creaks open. Fingon doesn’t bother sitting up. “Do you think I’m doing the right thing?” he asks.

Idhron sets down a goblet and carafe of wine on the desk, along with a small plate of apple and cheeses. “I think you are doing your best,” he says. “And because I can likely guess at where your thoughts have gone, I know you would like your father to be here. But you have accomplished things he never managed, my lord.” Idhron’s hand lands on his shoulder. “I’m proud to serve you.”

The wood beneath his head is blurry. When Fingon finally sits up, the desk is stained with tears.

0-o-0-o-0

Turgon arrives back in Barad Eithel with a small retinue. Fingon watches his arrival from his balcony. He cannot decide if he is relieved or not when there is fairly little fanfare upon his arrival. Most of the talk in court, from what he can tell, is of new trade deals still to be struck between Barad Eithel and Gondolin.

Fingon breathes out. Maedhros is waiting for him at the balcony doors, dressed like Fingon in resplendent court robes. His are a bright scarlet accented with enough blue that he won't attract every eye in the room. Fingon is in his father's deep blue, but with a wide red sash around his waist.

Maglor calls these outfits their unified front. He's not really wrong.

Maedhros takes his hand, pressing a kiss to Fingon's knuckles. The gold ribbon gleams around his wrist. "He's nearly here."

Fingon hums. "Then we shall be ready to receive him."

He takes a breath, and heads for the council room, Maedhros falling into step beside him.

It is a private audience, Fingon will grant his brother that. And he has made sure that Maeglin is far out of the city, Maglor in the appointed role as guardian as he takes him and Celebrimbor out for a ride. They may stay out overnight. Maedhros has a messenger ready to tell them to find a campsite if things go particularly poorly.

Fingon sits at the head of the table, Maedhros taking a seat in the corner. Refreshments are waiting on the table. Now all they have to do is wait.

Before long, the door is opened. "King Turgon of Gondolin," Idhron announces.

Turgon strides in. He is still in travelling clothes, the hem of his cloak dusty from the road. "Fingon, Maedhros," he says with a nod to both. "What is so important that I had to return so quickly? And why is Glorfindel now my ambassador to you? I don't remember agreeing to that."

“Take a seat, Turgon.” Fingon nods at the chair opposite, and waits until Turgon has sat down and helped himself to the refreshments laid out. “I haven’t yet made it official, Glorfindel’s ambassadorship, but you do need an ambassador here precisely because of situations like these.”

Turgon frowns. “What situation?” he asks.

Fingon breathes out steadily, and holds onto the steady thrum of copper and gold in his mind. “It has come to my attention recently that what you told me of the events of our sister’s death, after the Galad Lain, were not…complete.”

Turgon’s frown deepens. “What did I miss?” he asks. “What was so important that you asked me to return here?”

Fingon braces himself. “I will be plain. You sanctioned the death of Ëol, who is not our kin, and who is not under our laws. Moreover, you did so without the permission of the High King, and have set a dangerous precedent that we must now deal with.”

Turgon’s expression grows thunderous. “You- she was our sister !” he exclaims. “He killed her! Would you not have had me mete out the punishment that he so rightly deserves? Would you have had me let him loose, so he could run back to Doriath and bring a Doriathrim army to my hidden gates? Who knows what Thingol’s stance is on children being withheld from their fathers, who knows what he would have done in aiding Ëol to retrieve Maeglin?”

“Still,” Fingon says, grappling to keep his voice even. “What do I do if Doriath asks for reparations? What do I do if Thingol uses this against us?”

“Tell him that if he harbours such people who will imprison free people of the Noldor, then we will mete out justice,” Turgon says darkly. “And we will meet him on the field if he so desires his mangled form of justice for his kin.”

“Do not be a fool, Turgon,” Maedhros says sharply from the corner of the room. “We cannot afford rifts between us right now. Not all of us have impenetrable mountains to shelter us.”

Turgon scoffs. “We are safe, are we not? Morgoth has fled, Angband is standing open and being emptied even as we speak. Can we not afford to be on poor terms with Doriath?” His expression sharpens. “But of course, that cannot be true for a Fëanorion. Not when they still hold your precious Silmaril.”

“You know that to be true,” Maedhros says sharply. “Whilst Thingol holds the Silmaril from us, the Oath only sleeps. And it does not belong to him.” He leans forwards, elbows resting on his knees. “I am afraid it will only bring him hurt, and bloodshed, and put us in even more of a precarious position. What will Doriath do, if Thingol brings about his own ruin through coveting the Silmaril?”

Turgon is shaking his head. “Do you not agree that Ëol deserved death, brother?” he says to Fingon, his voice rising. “Do you not agree that killing him was the very least that I could have done to avenge her? Throwing him from the cliffs was the best I could think of, but even that was not enough. Nothing could be enough! He killed her , Fingon!”

"I know!" Fingon shouts. "She was my sister as well! Do you not think I miss her? Do you not think I wish she was here to see her son grow, to see these lands become safer? But I am not just her brother! I am the High King of the Noldor, and I am answerable to more than my own desires. As are you!"

His voice rings out in the room. For a long moment, there is silence.

“What is it you will do then, brother?” Turgon asks, his voice tight. “As the High King? Will you punish Gondolin for our…misstep? For avenging our sister’s death?”

“I will not sanction you for your actions,” Fingon says heavily. “Because that will open a whole chest of things that nobody wants to open. But I am going to rewrite our laws. Any sanctioned death of another Elda must only be for the most grievous of crimes. The crime they have committed must be premeditated, the judgement can only be dealt by myself, or a King of the Noldor. It must be considered for more than a day before being passed, and it must be done so by a council that includes at least one lawmaster to judge that the situation aligns with our laws.”

Turgon is silent. “Glorfindel and Ecthelion have already written detailed accounts of Aredhel’s death and your judgement of Ëol’s punishment,” Fingon says. “By and large, what happened has fallen within the remit of these laws. I will require accounts from yourself and everyone else who was there when you discussed Ëol’s punishment, and within the next few months I will be sending an ambassador to you, who will reside in Gondolin and answer to me. Probably a lawmaster or two as well, once I have done a thorough review of our laws and their implementations.”

“Would you have me throw open Gondolin’s gates?” Turgon asks, his voice tight. “Reveal ourselves all at once? Will you give our location to anyone who asks?”

“No,” Fingon says firmly. “Not yet.” He looks down at his papers in front of them, and pushes them to one side. “There’s one more thing.”

“What else could there be?” Turgon asks, his voice rising sharply. “Will you sanction me yet again for doing what was right, what was just ? For meting out a punishment that met the crime? He killed her, Fingon, he killed our sister!”

“And you made Maeglin watch !” Fingon roars back. “You made him stand there and watch as you, the uncle he had never met until that day, push his father over a fucking cliff the day after he lost his mother! He had nobody in Gondolin, Turgon, no one that he could trust, because you killed his father !”

Turgon is gaping at him, eyes wide. As Fingon watches, breathing harshly, Turgon deflates all at once. His eyes are wet. “Is he okay?” he gets out, his voice shaking. “Is he- please tell me he’s okay.”

“He’s had a rough few days,” Maedhros says quietly from the corner, “but he will be. We’re making sure of it.” He fixes Turgon with a look, one that Fingon has only seen when people have been threatening his brothers. It’s not a common one, given that nobody really tries to move against the Fëanorions anymore. “I consider him my nephew as well, Turgon, and you have harmed him more than you realise.”

Turgon bristles. “Maeglin is a fine young-”

"Maeglin is scared of you," Maedhros snaps. "His mother was dead, and the uncle he had never met took his father and ordered him thrown from a cliff, in front of him. Turgon ." Maedhros leans forwards. "He was scared that he was next ."

"I would- I would never! I never would have harmed him!" Turgon protests.

"Well, you should have tried harder," Maedhros says. "You should have told him that. We are meant to protect our children. What fucking else is all of this for ?"

Turgon’s eyes are wet. As Fingon watches, he reaches up and wipes at his eyes, a shaking breath shuddering through the line of his shoulders. “Is he here?” he asks. “Can I…can I talk with him?”

“He’s out with Tyelpë,” Fingon says quietly. “Maglor is keeping an eye on them. I would…Turno, I would give it some time. He’s been so hurt- and not just by you,” he says quickly as Turgon’s gaze snaps to him. “By his father, most of all, and by losing Aredhel, by the isolation of Nan Elmoth and then the isolation of Gondolin and his own intelligence and faults, reading things that weren’t truly there. He’s…he’s getting there, Turgon, but we all need to be patient.”

“I…I should go,” Turgon says into his hands. “I need to…I need to think.” He clears his throat. “He’s happy here?”

“Oh, Tyelpë makes sure of it,” Maedhros says wryly. “They’re firm friends now.” He is watching Turgon with something that looks somewhat like pity, and Turgon doesn’t meet his gaze for more than a moment before turning back to Fingon.

“Stay for the night, at least,” Fingon says. “We’ll have dinner.”

Turgon is watching him intently. “There’s something else, isn’t there,” he says quietly.

His brother has always been insightful at the worst damn moments.

“Turno,” Fingon makes himself say, copper and gold soothing in his mind. “By our own laws, you are our Crown Prince now, since I became High King. And whilst I and Maedhros will likely have a family of our own-” Copper and gold flares, and Fingon can’t help looking over at Maedhros. “Though we’ll likely have a family of our own, soon enough,” he continues softly, “it won’t be for a while. And we need an heir.”

Turgon glances back and forth between them. “And you don’t want it to be me,” he says slowly.

Fingon can’t help but flinch. “I don’t- Turgon, when I was Crown Prince I was here . I had duties, things that I undertook to ease the burden on our father, to help him rule, and even if I had wanted to strike out on my own, I knew that I couldn’t. I couldn’t leave here for more than maybe a few months at a time, if that. The Crown Prince carries significant weight, and if you were to fill the role that I filled for our father…you would have to be here. And I don’t want to do that to you.”

“So that’s the choice?” Turgon asks. “My duties in Gondolin, or my duties here? My people, or you?”

“I don’t want you to have to make that choice, and feel guilty either way,” Fingon says.

“Having a Crown Prince who is a King in their own right isn’t a good idea anyway,” Maedhros adds. “Who’s to say which duty supersedes the other?” He leans forwards. “Fingon isn’t asking you to abdicate. The person we have in mind for the Crown Prince, who I’m sure you can guess, isn’t ready for that role yet.”

“If you agree, in a number of years we would like you to hand the title over to our nephew,” Fingon says. “For now, you’ll keep the title, but the duties of the title will be split between myself, Maeglin and my advisors until he is ready.” He leans forwards towards Turgon. “Brother. Please. I don’t want to have to make you choose.”

Turgon’s eyes are wet. He nods. “When he’s ready,” he says. He clears his throat, and gets to his feet. “I should wash and change, before dinner,” he says, his voice quiet. “I will…I will think on all of this.”

Fingon is on his feet, and rounding the table before he even realises he is moving. “Turno,” he says quietly, his voice thick and his eyes suddenly burning. “I know it’s just us left now, and I’m sorry . I am, I’m so sorry I wasn’t there to…I’m so sorry I wasn’t there.”

Turgon’s arms are around him. His little brother, who he has spent so long apart from, wondering desperately if he was okay. “I’m sorry too,” he says in Fingon’s ear. “I am. I should have…it would have been easier for you, if I was here. And I wasn’t. I can’t regret Gondolin, but I…I do regret leaving you on your own.” He pulls back, grasping both of Fingon’s shoulders. “Our father would be so very proud of you, and all that you’ve done. I know I am.”

Fingon manages to keep himself together until Turgon leaves, and then his face crumples. Maedhros is immediately there, gathering him up in his arms. “Well done, beloved,” he murmurs into his hair. “Oh, Finno, I know that was so hard for you.”

“He’s so young, Russo,” Fingon whispers into his shoulder. “He’s so…he’s so damn young . He should never have to have suffered like that, he should never-” Fresh sobs overtake him. “I wish she was here. I wish she hadn’t left me to raise her son.”

Maedhros tightens his grip on him. “We’ll do the very best we can,” he promises. “We’ll look after him, I promise.” He presses a kiss to Fingon’s temple. “I promise.”

0-o-0-o-0

Turgon leaves early in the morning. That afternoon, Maeglin and Tyelpë return, windswept and arguing over some smithing detail that Maedhros doesn’t even pretend to understand as they head through to their rooms. “All good?” Maglor asks as he comes into the family room, pulling off his riding gloves and tossing them onto a side table. “I see that Turgon has scarpered already, I hope that he doesn’t have too scorched a tail.”

“It was all very civilised, thank you,” Maedhros replies from the sofa. “How were the boys?”

“Maeglin was putting on a brave face, but he’s unsettled,” Maglor says as he helps himself to some wine and takes a seat. “He’s…Nelyo, I don’t think he’s had a stable home pretty much all his life. He talked a little about it with Tyelpë last night. I wasn’t meant to overhear, but…” He shrugs unrepentantly. “His father was a piece of work, from the sounds of it, and then Gondolin and Turgon's abysmal attempts at expressing any kind of emotion only compounded it all. We both know what it’s like to grow up with expectations on our shoulders, but Maeglin…” He shakes his head. “It’s fucked up, Nelyo.”

“I know,” Maedhros says quietly. “I noticed it within the first few weeks of him coming here, but it was also evident that he was terrified of me, so I did my best to be at most a somewhat distant guiding hand, and wait for him to trust me. I think we’re there now, more or less, but…” He sighs. “It’ll take time, I think.”

Maglor hums. “It will.” He sips at his wine. “So, when are you going to make him Crown Prince?”

Maedhros chokes on his next breath. “Since when was that rumour out?” he asks. “We haven’t even asked Maeglin yet. Too much too soon at the moment, I think.”

Maglor snorts. “It’s pretty obvious. He’s incredibly smart, will be a gifted politician once he learns all the minutiae of Barad Eithel, and is liked by pretty much everyone here. Not to mention that both you and Fingon dote on him.” He nudges Maedhros in the side. “It’ll all work out.”

A few minutes later Fingon arrives, still in his robes from court and all but dropping himself into Maedhros’ lap with a huff of exhaustion. Maeglin and Tyelpë return not a few minutes after that and take up one of the other sofas. Tyelpë almost immediately swings his feet up and into Maeglin’s lap, not breaking off from whatever theory he is running past Maeglin now.

Maeglin makes a face, and shoves Tyelpë’s feet off his lap. “Keep your boots off the furniture, you philistine,” he says.

“They weren’t on the furniture,” Tyelpë points out with a grin. “They were on your lap.”

“Even worse. You might only rotate through the same three soot-stained outfits, but I have standards.”

Tyelpë makes a wounded noise, and leans forwards to hit at Maeglin’s arm. “I’ve had to put up with this for two days,” Maglor mutters to Maedhros. “You owe me.”

“Sure,” Maedhros says easily. He puts one arm around Fingon, pressing a kiss to his cheek, and leans into the contented hum of copper and gold.

Maeglin still looks a little unsure of himself, a little too aware of everyone else in the room, but when Fingon asks him about their trip he doesn’t hesitate in answering. Tyelpë tries to swing his feet up into his lap again, and Maeglin, without breaking stride, pushes him off the sofa entirely.

Maedhros can’t help the grin on his face as Tyelpë squawks in outrage on the floor. They’re getting there. Slowly but surely, they’re getting there.

Chapter Text

The study is quiet, beyond the crackling of the fire in the grate and the scratch of quill over parchment. Caranthir finishes the column he's working on, sliding a few beads over on his abacus to double-check the total in his head.

Maedhros had commissioned the abacus from Azaghal years ago, and the beads click satisfyingly together as Caranthir resets the abacus and turns to the next page.

He reads through the column of items down the side. "Nelyo," he says, not looking up from the parchment. "Why have we paid for fifty chrysoberyls with three horses? Azaghal's finance minister is just going to sell them back to me at twice the price."

Maedhros, sat at his own desk and poring over maps, looks sheepish. "They were a gift for Lómion?" he tries. "And Azaghal promised me that he wanted them to pull heavy machinery in the quarries. They were draft horses, not chargers. You know Káno would hunt me down if I'd sold any of his projects."

Caranthir hums. "Next time, just give him money. He can buy the draft horses himself. And stop buying our nephew anything he even vaguely indicates that he might want, it's unbalancing the books."

He knows it's an impossible ask for Maedhros, but he does have a multi-decade plan that is only in the first years, and as such is at its most vulnerable. Maedhros' spoiling his new nephew at every opportunity isn't exactly helping.

"Stop giving me that look, Moryo," Maedhros says with a wry smile. "I know for a fact that you account for all sorts of fluctuations, and compared to Curvo's penchant for strange materials, occasionally indulging Lómion is hardly as bad."

Caranthir hums, and turns back to his books. There's silence for a few more minutes as the two of them work. Maedhros starts humming softly to himself as he draws up next year's rotations of battalions and tasks that need doing, various reports scattered around the central map on his desk. Caranthir considers telling him to be quiet, but after a few minutes, he finds himself not minding it. He even thinks he recognises the tune, something Maedhros' soldiers tend to start singing once they've had a few pints.

His own pieces of parchment are starting to build up, and he's running out of weights to keep them in place. "Have you got a paperweight?" Caranthir asks, not looking up from his work, the next time Maedhros gets up and crosses in front of his desk to retrieve another map from the shelves along one wall.

He's expecting a knife to pin the paper down and put another nick in his desk. The soft gleam of the Silmaril, set down gently on top of one of his piles, takes him by surprise.

Maedhros is doing a terrible job of being nonchalant as he returns to his own desk, watching Caranthir intently out of the corner of his eye. "I suppose you think you're very clever," he mutters.

Maedhros gives up all pretence of not watching him. "That depends on what you do next," he says softly.

Caranthir sighs. His fingers hover for a moment over the Silmaril, and then he reaches down and grasps it.

It's warm between his fingers, warmer still when he turns his hand over and lets it settle in his palm. The warmth spreads steadily up his arm. If he concentrates, it almost feels as if he is sat with his embroidery in his lap and a needle and thread in his hand, when his hands seem to know what he wants before he even thinks of it.

"Huh."

Maedhros is smiling widely. "Knew it, Moryo," he says through his grin.

Caranthir rolls the Silmaril between his fingers, watching as the light shifts and changes with the facets of the crystal. "Satisfied?" he asks eventually, setting it back down on top of a loose pile of papers.

Maedhros looks like he's itching with the urge to smother him with an embrace. "Do not," Caranthir warns. "I am busy."

"You're always busy," Maedhros says with a smile. He does stay at his desk, but his wide smile doesn't leave his face until Caranthir groans, gets up from his desk and lets Maedhros smother him for a few minutes until he's content.

The Silmaril stays on his desk until they both leave for dinner.

0-o-0-o-0

"I told you this wasn't a good idea."

"No you fucking didn't. You said yourself that this was the best test we could possibly do short of finding him and throwing the chains at him. Don't blame me for this."

Curufin sighs. "Boys," he chides. "Don't blame each other. We all knew the risks of coming in here, and we all agreed anyway. We're going to be fine. The guards know where we are, and we'll either get out to them, or they'll find a way in to us."

Tyelpë quiets, and shifts closer to Maeglin to press up against him. They're sat up against the base of a set of steps, disappearing up into the darkness, but Curufin already knows that it's a dead end. The stairs end abruptly with a caved-in section of wall blocking their way completely, and all of them are covered in grey dust from when the wall came down behind them, sending them tumbling down the steep stairs.

They're just lucky that Maeglin's ankle, likely broken but not badly, is the only injury they need to worry about.

Maeglin winces as Maglor moves his ankle, his face grey. "Sorry," Maglor says, "but we need to splint it. Just stay still a moment longer."

Pieces of Curufin's cane are strapped to Maeglin's ankle with long strips of Maglor's cloak. Maglor ties the last piece tight around Maeglin's calf. "As good as we can get it," he says, sitting back on his heels. "We need to get moving."

"Tyelpë, you help Maeglin," Curufin says as he gets to his feet. "Káno, go in front with the Silmaril. I'll take the rear with the chain."

Maglor shakes his head. "The chain is going to slow us down, even more than we already are. We should leave it."

"Absolutely not," Maeglin says immediately. "It has taken us a decade to make this chain, and we are not leaving it behind." He heaves himself up and grabs the chain, but the moment he tries to put it over his shoulder he brushes his broken ankle against the ground, and only Tyelpë's quick reactions stop him falling entirely. He quickly sits back down, face ashen as Tyelpë fusses over him.

"I'll take it," Curufin says, holding out his hand. "We'll be moving slowly anyway."

"You don't have your cane anymore," Maglor points out. "You can't carry that and effectively wield a sword."

"I can if I have to," Curufin says sharply. "We're wasting time. We need to start moving."

Maglor draws him away from the boys a little, brow furrowed in concern. "If you took the Silmaril-"

"No." It's instinctive, a sharp rebuke rising in Curufin's throat. " No ," he says again, tugging his arm out of Maglor's grip. "We'll be fine. I'll take the chain, and you go in front with your Silmaril. That will be enough."

Maglor's dark gaze is too knowing, even as Curufin turns his back. He picks up the chain, wrapping it around one shoulder and his chest as best as he can. One hand keeps it in place, and the other grips his sword. The tip of the blade trembles, but Curufin just gives Maglor a hard look.

They move out. Their pace is horribly slow, each crossroads and twisting turn sending Curufin's heart racing in his chest as the darkness of these endless dungeons reaches out for them. Angband has been standing mostly empty for years now, but mostly has always been the important word there. These halls are endless, and there are many passages leading deep into the mountains through which evil can sometimes slink in. Curufin has seen the reports that cross Maedhros' desk. Wolves, fey and dreadful and roaming the northern mountains, have taken to making their homes in the far reaches of these halls, and there have been reports of webs being found, far bigger than for a normal spider. He knows that there is still danger here.

He won't say it in front of the boys, not when Maeglin's face is grey with pain and Tyelpë's eyes are wide and frightened, but they were fools to come into the depths of Angband. The chain needs testing, more than they have managed so far with the shard of Morgoth's crown or a captured orc, but jumping immediately to trying to chain shut the doors to the throne room was shortsighted.

They thought they had contingencies in place. An experienced guard, patrols sweeping the route beforehand, Maglor with his Silmaril. They just hadn't anticipated a wall collapsing and cutting them off, leaving them injured and without an easy route back.

It's almost lucky that Maedhros is in Himring for the winter, Curufin thinks as he watches his son struggle to keep Maeglin's weight off his foot. At least with the few weeks it will take him to find out about all of this, they can come up with a defence.

Tyelpë has one of their maps out in his hands. “I think if we turn right up ahead, we can get back up to the level we were on,” he says. “And then hopefully the guards are up there. They’ll have headed for the rendezvous point, yes?”

“Probably,” Maglor says over his shoulder. “That’s why that contingency is there. But they might have panicked, and tried to find us. We can’t do anything about whether they follow the contingency plan or now, so we need to just keep moving out towards the main entrance.” He glances at Maeglin. “Lómion? How are you holding up?”

Maeglin grimaces, taking another few steps and panting through gritted teeth. “I’m fine,” he says. “It’s fine. We need to keep moving.”

They keep moving, staggering through the winding tunnels. Curufin's blade is heavy in his hand, and after a short while he keeps it down low by his side instead of out in front of him, lest he lose control of it entirely.

The dark eats at them, creeping in from shadowed doorways and endless twisting hallways leading off into nothing but thick black. Maglor holds the Silmaril in one hand, light leaking through his fingers, but he's wary of unleashing it fully. Curufin still doesn't fully understand how the Silmarils work, what Maglor means when he talks about gaps in the music, but he knows enough to know that too much of the light is as much a hindrance as a boon.

It's perhaps because of that cloying darkness creeping in on them, that it takes Curufin as long as he does to notice something isn't right.

Ahead of him, Tyelpë stumbles. The map in his grip flutters, and then slips from his fingers.

"Tyelpë?"

Even in the pale white light of the Silmaril, Tylepë's face is white. "Son?" Curufin asks again. He pushes forwards as Maglor turns, just in time to grab Tyelpë's other arm as he suddenly sways alarmingly.

"Tyelpë!"

Tyelpë blinks at him. "I don't- I don't feel right," he mutters. "I don't-"

He sways again. Curufin curses, trying to prop him up as best he can as Maglor grabs Maeglin and keeps him upright as best he can. "Fuck," Maglor spits. "Tyelpë, look at me."

Tyelpë does his best, and Maglor curses again. "Angband sickness. I didn't realise we'd been down here that long." He looks over his shoulder. "Curvo, take the Silmaril and go in front."

Curufin recoils, the chain clinking over his shoulder and nearly falling. "No. I'll take Tyelpë's other side. You stay in front."

"Curvo, you can't," Maglor says, frustration bleeding through in his voice. "Your cane is strapped around Maeglin's foot right now, and Tyelpë isn't going to be able to walk in a straight line soon! We need to move fast, and you need to take the Silmaril so I can help Tyelpë and Maeglin."

Maglor's hand is clenched tight around the Silmaril, light leaking through his fist. He offers it to Curufin.

Curufin takes a step back. He can't help himself. He knows what will happen if he accepts that.

Maglor's face is tense with frustration, Tyelpë trying to blink off the haze beside him as Maeglin, face grey, does his best to keep his weight off his foot. "Curvo-"

Something moves in the darkness. Curufin pushes past them, sword raised and wishing his damn hand would just stop trembling for a fucking moment.

There's something moving in the darkness. "Atar?" Tyelpë asks.

"There's something there," Curufin says softly. "Can't you hear it?"

A soft click, and what sounds like a rustle of something dragging over stone. "Stay there," he hears Maglor say to Tyelpë, and then the light of the Silmaril is gleaming from Maglor's outstretched hand as he walks forwards.

There is a hiss from somewhere within the black hallways in front of them, and then darkness explodes out towards them.

Maglor parries, sword gleaming in the Silmaril's light. A gnarled black leg falls to Curufin's feet with a spray of dark blood.

It's been years since Curufin has been in a battle. He hasn't forgotten.

His sword flashes, cutting through the stiff hide of a spider that leaps for him out of the darkness. Maglor is a whirl of steel beside him, covering Curufin's exposed side, and for a moment Curufin is sure that they're going to be fine.

Tyelpë yells behind him. Curufin spins to see three spiders rushing at his sons from the other direction. "Tyelpë!"

Maglor spins. Another spider lurches out of the dark. Curufin is too far away, and too slow.

The spider leaps at Maglor, sending him flying. He hits the wall hard, only just managing to fend off the spider's bite, but the spider writhes and hisses venom, and a second one slams into him.

With a quiet clink, the Silmaril is knocked from Maglor's hand.

There is another yell from Tyelpë as he throws a spider back, sword flashing as he drives it away. Maeglin is propped up against the wall, trying desperately to stay upright as two spiders rush at him.

When it comes down to it, there's no decision at all.

Curufin drops his sword, and the chain, and he throws himself for the Silmaril.

Please , he hopes as he reaches for it, and his hand closes around cold crystal, so small in his palm. Please, just let me save them.

For a moment there is heat, blazing strength in the palm of his hand. And then-

And then, there is light.

Pure white light streams through his fingers. There is a blazing warmth in his hand as the Silmaril burns, burns like the hearth of a forge, the white hot of steel as he draws it out of the fires. He can hear the ringing of hammers in his ears, a chorus of creation as he raises his hand and pure white light roars out through the hallway, tearing through the darkness. There are screams as the spiders are thrown back, screeching as they are blinded and scurry back into the receding darkness.

Curufin is panting for breath. He can taste the metallic tang of blood in his mouth. The Silmaril is warm is his hand as he stares at it, gleaming softly.

He opens his hand. His palm isn't even reddened.

There's a gasp of pain, and all thoughts of the Silmaril are forgotten. "Lómion!" Curufin says urgently, scrambling over to his side. Maeglin is propped up against the wall, teeth gritted as he clutches at his ankle. "Easy, son," Curufin says, pulling off his cloak and bundling it up beneath Maeglin's ankle. "It's going to be fine, now, you're going to be just fine."

Maeglin makes a small noise, and suddenly there's a heavy weight against Curufin's side. Maeglin trembles, and Curufin instinctively wraps his arm around his shoulder. "Maglor?" he asks. "Tyelpë?"

"All good, Atar," Tyelpë says, heaving himself to his feet and poking at one of the dead spiders even as he sways. "Uncle?"

Maglor is sitting up against the opposite wall, sword in hand. He is staring at the Silmaril, still loosely grasped in Curufin's hand.

As Curufin watches, Maglor starts smiling. "I knew it," he says quietly. He gets up and kneels in front of Curufin, pressing their foreheads together. "I knew it ," he whispers again.

Curufin shoves him off with a snarl. "We need to get moving," he says, even as the tremors from Maeglin seem to start spreading to him. His fingers clench around the Silmaril. He can feel it. There's something resonating in the back of his mind, like when the layers of steel in a blade are at the perfect temperature. He can recognise similar echoes in the chain they've been forging, the singing of a metal as a link comes together and traces of mithril bridge the gap between intent and spirit and contain it within the metal, chain after chain.

The chains are quiet, compared to the warmth in his hand, but they are still there. Sister creations, in some way.

Like recognises like, it appears.

Tyelpë crawls over and slumps against Maeglin. "Alright, brother?" he asks softly.

Maeglin shuts his eyes, but not before Curufin can see the sheen to them. "Good lad, Tyelpë," he murmurs over Maeglin's head. "How are you holding up?"

"The rush of the fight has cleared the worst of the spinning, but I don't think it will last," Tyelpë admits. He reaches over and squeezes Curufin's hand, fingers lacing with his over the Silmaril. "Knew it," he whispers.

"Yes, thank you." Curufin considers their position for a moment. They're safe for the moment, but they need to move again soon, meet up with the guards that are probably frantic trying to find them, and get out of these twisting halls. "Lómion, do you think you can keep going?"

Maeglin hums. "It's just a broken ankle. I'll be fine."

Curufin and Maglor exchange worried looks. "We wait here for fifteen minutes," Maglor says, "in case the guards heard the fighting, and then we move again."

It turns out they don't have to wait that long. Barely a few minutes pass before they hear the sound of running feet, and then the guards round the corner, gasping for breath. Between all of them they are able to find their way out, Maeglin held up between two guards and Tyelpë leaning heavily on another.

Curufin goes in front, and the Silmaril lights the way.

When they finally return to Echad Methren and to their tents, Curufin finally breathes a sigh of relief, and hands the Silmaril back to Maglor. Maeglin is already being seen to by the healers, ankle propped up on his bed, and Curufin heads over to press a kiss to first his forehead, and then Tyelpë's. "Well done, both of you," he says.

Tyelpë scrunches up his face. "We messed up," he says quietly. "Lómion was- and I- we didn't even test the chain properly."

Curufin sits down next to him on the bed and pulls him into an embrace. "And none of that matters as long as the both of you are alright," he says quietly. "We'll have other chances to test the chain. I won't ever have other sons."

Maeglin's eyes are wet. Curufin presses a kiss to Tyelpë's hair, and then pulls him over so he can reach both of his boys. He doesn't let go of either of them until they're both fast asleep.

Maglor appears in the doorway of the tent. "We should let them sleep," he whispers, a soft smile on his face as he watches them. "And get some rest ourselves."

Curufin gets carefully to his feet, and quietly steps around the two beds. He's focused on making sure Maeglin and Tyelpë are still asleep, and as such has no time to dodge out of the way of Maglor's embrace.

"I'm proud of you, little brother," Maglor murmurs in his ear.

"Get your hands off me, you cretin," Curufin snaps in reply, but he can't quite bring himself to pull away.

0-o-0-o-0

The garden is neat, and far too manicured for Celegorm's taste, but sitting out with the sun on the back of his neck and the grass beneath his bare feet is better than sitting inside surrounded by stone as he fletches his arrows.

The feathers are long and thick beneath his fingers, iridescent in the sunlight. He'd plucked them from a bird that Amras shot down in far off lands east of the mountains. His paring knife, the one that was once Aredhel's and is now his, slides neatly down the line of the quill to take off half of the feathers. He carefully trims the remaining feathers down to size, delicately shaping them to how he wants them.

He's beginning to attach the feathers to the arrow shaft with a rabbitskin glue, using a blade of grass to carefully apply a thin line along the shaft, when there's a huff from the nearby bushes. "Don't distract me," Celegorm says, his voice low. "I'm nearly done."

A cold wet nose presses into his wrist. Without looking up from his work, Celegorm gently nudges Rýn away. "Stop it," he chides. "Surely you can find something else to entertain yourself with in this entire city?"

Rýn whines, the sound strangely muffled, but Celegorm is about to start binding the feathers in place with a linen thread, and he needs both hands and all his concentration for that. "Easy, lass," he says to her. "If you're going to stay, then please don't interrupt me until I'm done."

He can feel Rýn flop down next to him. She starts chewing on something, but it's not something from his pack on the other side of him, so Celegorm doesn't particularly care. The thin linen thread is carefully drawn around the shaft to hold the arrows in place, and only once Celegorm is happy with the shaft does he set it aside. Tyelpë and Maeglin are working on some new types of arrowheads for him to take back out when he leaves next week, so hopefully he'll be able to test them tomorrow.

His hand finds Rýn's back, tangling his fingers in her wiry fur. She's still gnawing away at something between her paws, and Celegorm glances over. "What have you got there?" he asks.

Rýn immediately grabs the item and looks sheepishly up at him. Celegorm stills. "What have you got in your mouth?"

Rýn tries to slowly crawl away, belly on the floor. Celegorm swiftly grabs the scruff of her neck. "Rýn, what have you got in your mouth?"

Rýn goes completely still. Celegorm realises a moment too late what she's about to do.

"Rýn!"

He's far too slow to tackle her, and with a muffled yip, Rýn is off across the garden. Celegorm leaps up after her. "Rýn, get back here!" he yells after her. "Get back- don't you dare !"

Rýn pauses at the gate to the garden, just long enough to look back at him. "You look really stupid with that thing in your mouth," Celegorm tries. "Drop it."

Rýn wags her tail, and takes off running. Celegorm curses, and sprints after her. “I’m not going to feel sorry for you when you trip and swallow whatever that is!” he yells as he darts past a patrol of guards, Rýn a sandy blur as she dodges around some lawmakers that Celegorm doesn’t recognise and nearly upsets the piles of parchment scrolls in their arms. “Sorry,” Celegorm gets out as he skids around them. “Rýn! Get back here!”

She leads him on a chase through the upper streets of Barad Eithel, dodging courtiers and advisors and guards, startled cries in their wake. Celegorm can’t help the grin as he darts after her, skidding around corners and sprinting down the white stone streets. Barad Eithel does need shaking up sometimes.

They end up back in the garden Celegorm had been in, his pack and fletching supplies on the grass where he left them. Rýn yips, the sound still muffled by whatever she has firmly held in her jaws.

Part of Celegorm is just grateful that it's not someone's pet rabbit, or something similar. That would be awkward to explain to his brother-in-law.

Rýn faces him, tail wagging so hard her whole body is swaying with it. She drops into a bow, poised and waiting.

Celegorm stalks forwards, slowly rolling up his sleeves. "Nowhere to run, lass," he says with a grin. "Your time's up."

Rýn's tail just keeps wagging. Celegorm waits, until she's just beginning to show the first signs of impatience, and then he pounces.

It's a fairly even fight. Rýn comes up to his hip now, still growing judging by her massive paws that chew up the grass as they tussle. Her tail whacks him in the face as Celegorm rolls over with her, careful not to actually do anything that could hurt her. Normally at this point Rýn would be mouthing at his hands, wriggling around on her back until she manages to catch one of his hands in her mouth, but she still stubbornly hasn't given up on whatever she's keeping hold of.

"Hah!" Celegorm exclaims as he finally pins Rýn, a not inconsiderable task given how much she's squirming, her tail wagging furiously. "Right. Drop it."

Rýn stubbornly keeps her mouth shut. Celegorm reaches up and, with a wince, sticks his hand in her mouth.

Whatever she has is hard, some sort of bauble or ball that is now covered in slobber. "Give it," Celegorm says sternly, trying to get purchase on the strange object. "Rýn, drop it!"

Rýn goes still, and slowly opens her jaws.

"Hah!" Celegorm says, pulling the object out. "Knew you would give in eventually…"

He trails off, staring down at the object in his hand.

In the palm of his hand, the Silmaril gleams up at him.

It takes him a moment to realise that it's warm. Just warm. No searing pain, no burning skin. Just a gentle warmth settled in the palm of his hand.

He falls back onto the grass. He's vaguely aware of Rýn's warmth pressing up beside him, fur brushing against his arm and a wet nose pressing into his neck. "See?" Rýn says.

"You- you set me up," Celegorm chokes out. His fingers twitch, but he can't bring himself to do anything but stare at the Silmaril, hand outstretched in front of him.

"You weren't ever going to find out for yourself," Rýn says. "I'm yours . I'm meant to help you out when you're being an idiot."

Celegorm's laugh chokes on a sob. Rýn clambers into his lap, licking at his face. He wraps his arms around her, Silmaril clasped in his hand, buries his face in her fur, and sobs.

"This should hurt, " Celegorm gasps out when he manages to get a single breath in without collapsing into sobs again. "This should- I shouldn't be able to hold this. I don't want to."

"I told you before, brother," a voice says from behind him. "You don't get to stop caring just because it hurts."

Celegorm blinks through his tears to see Amras, leaning up against a tree. "I suppose you had something to do with this," he rasps.

Amras smiles softly. "Someone had to ask Nelyo for permission, and make sure the Silmaril would actually end up in your hands. I was all for just throwing it at your head and seeing if you would catch it, but Rýn had other ideas."

Celegorm takes a shaky breath. "Fuck you, Telvo," he gets out, and he tosses the Silmaril at his head.

Amras catches it easily. "You'll have to try harder than that to surprise me," he says, wandering over and dropping to the ground beside Celegorm. "I asked Nelyo years ago if I could hold his Silmaril."He holds out his hand, white light gleaming through his fingers. "You already know what's going to happen," he says quietly when Celegorm hesitates.

Slowly, ever so slowly, Celegorm holds out his hand. Amras gently drops the Silmaril into it.

It's warm. Celegorm can feel the warmth seeping into his skin, like the sun on the back of his neck. If he concentrates, he can almost hear the rush of wind, the whistle of an arrow as it flies true. For a moment, he can hear the space for the call of a hunting horn.

He breathes out, and it all fades. Amras is looking over at him with a soft smile. Rýn is sprawled across both their laps.

"I hate you both," Celegorm declares, even as he slings one arm around his brother's shoulders, and buries his other hand in his dog's hair. "You're both terrible. Stop it."

Rýn gnaws at his shoe. "Never," Amras says with a grin. "You're stuck with the both of us."

0-o-0-o-0

"That's all of them, then."

Maglor follows Maedhros into his living room, tugging off his riding gloves. "Yes, I've heard the rumours about Tyelko chasing his dog through the citadel and what she had in her mouth. Who's idea was that?"

Maedhros laughs as he heads for the sideboard and the chilled lemon water set in ice there. "Telvo, of course. Being on the Hunt has been good for him."

Maglor hums, accepting a glass from Maedhros and wrapping his hands around the cool glass. Caranthir was very pleased with the first imports of lemons up north, and already has people working on developing hardier varieties that could survive a northern winter. There's mint in it as well, and Maglor wonders not for the first time how any of them survived before Idhron was in charge of all of their lives.

Maedhros sits down on one of the sofas, pushing wayward curls of hair back away from his face, and Maglor joins him. "Is Lómion used to the crown yet?" he asks. "He seems incredibly busy."

"The anniversary celebrations," Maedhros explains, leaning his head back against the back of the sofa. "Seating arrangements. And he keeps rewriting his speech."

"Ah, of course." Maglor sips at his lemon water and leans into Maedhros, despite the slightly uncomfortable warmth. "I'm surprised Tyelko hasn't torn this city apart in a fit of emotions," he remarks. He can hear the sounds of the city drifting up from the open window, the symphony of Barad Eithel, and it doesn't sound like there's a Fëanorion upsetting any part of it yet. "Holding the Silmaril for the first time since…well, everything."

Maedhros hums, reaching for the string around his neck. "The Oath hasn't slept so easily in a long time," he murmurs.

Maglor nods. "I suppose you're feeling a little more at ease now," he says quietly.

Maedhros snorts. "Fingon keeps telling me not to worry, but how could I not? This is…it's a relief, Káno. It's not just on the two of us, anymore."

"It never was," Maglor reminds Maedhros. "But you know I'll be here as long as you need me."

finis

Chapter Text

The woods are darker than he remembers.

Or maybe he's just become used to the light of Barad Eithel.

Maeglin's horse shies nervously, tugging at the reins, and for a moment he thinks of mounting back up and turning her around, riding north and back to the safety of Barad Eithel and his uncles. Fingon and Maedhros wouldn't look differently at him if he returned having turned tail and fled from this. He's fairly sure of that, at least.

Fingon and Maedhros might not think differently of him, but he himself will. Maeglin sighs, coaxes his horse forwards into the shadows of the trees, and wishes he had let Tyelpë come with him.

It would have been an utter political disaster, getting Curufin's son through the Girdle let alone within Menegroth, where he had stayed last night, but still.

Maedhros was right. Things are changing quickly within those stone halls. Maeglin has been reading Melian's letters, picking over them and trying to remember anything that he can of what he heard of Menegroth and the factions within those halls. He's not much use. Nan Elmoth was always isolated, and his father kept them far away from it all.

Beleg and Mablung are more use than he is when it comes to these details, and even they don't have an accurate grasp on the currents within Menegroth, having spent most of their lives trying to avoid precisely those treacherous eddies. That's precisely why Maeglin made himself walk into Menegroth yesterday, all on his own and with a thousand eyes watching his every step. He had been there as Ëol's son and the Lord of whatever remains in Nan Elmoth, not as the Prince of the Noldor that sits far more easily on his shoulders these days, but they had all still stared at his dark skin, his mother's complexion and the way he braids his hair tight to his head just like she had.

The Doriathrim clothes he had worn the moment he had left Barad Eithel sit uncomfortable on his shoulders. Maeglin sighs, and makes himself keep walking.

Even after all these many years, he still remembers the way home.

Each step becomes heavier and harder to take, the more he pushes through these woods, now so thick that no sun at all reaches the forest floor. Maeglin swallows against the feeling of bile in his throat as the paths and trees around him become achingly familiar.

He rounds a corner in the path, and the endless trees give way all at once. There is grass beneath his feet, for the first time in hours, and Maeglin realises with a sharp pang that his feet have taken him without thinking around to the back of the house, where the forges stand dark and empty.

His horse's reins drop from numb fingers. Maeglin staggers forwards across the small clearing.

Here he had unloaded carts his father had brought back from the Dwarves, heaving chests of ore into the forges. Those divots there in the ground are where he dropped some of them, his father just giving him a disapproving look and going back to lighting the forge. The doors to the forge, the wood now rotting and falling apart- he made those hinges, one of the first things he forged on his own when the old ones rusted through.

That tree stump there was where his mother sat on days when the sun managed to reach them, watching him play.

Maeglin distantly realises that he's on his knees in the grass. His breaths are coming in short bursts, chest heaving as he presses his forehead to the wet grass. There's a high keening of a wounded animal coming from somewhere, and abruptly he realises that it's him.

He wants Fingon here. He wants Tyelpë to sling an arm around his shoulders and tug him close, wants Maedhros to clap him on the shoulder and tell him he's doing good work or Fingon to pull him into a hug until everything seems a little easier, Curufin to sit silently beside him as they work in the heat of their forges, arbitrate the silly disputes between himself and Tyelpë with a fond smile.

He wants-

Maeglin makes himself breathe. Eventually, after who knows how long, the tears stop coming and his breath comes steady.

He makes himself get to his feet. Luckily his horse is grazing quietly nearby, and he picks her reins back up, tying them to a nearby tree and taking off her tack. He is carrying mostly empty saddlebags at the moment, beyond the supplies he will need to stay here for a few days, and he sets them up in a small camp just on the edge of the treeline.

He already knows there is no way he will be able to sleep in that house.

Maeglin takes a breath. He'll come back to the forges, rotting doors hanging off the hinges. For now, he makes himself walk around to the front of the house.

The front doors are firmly shut. Some of the shutters are hanging off their hinges at the windows. Maeglin doesn't remember closing them when they had fled, but his father must have pulled at least some of them to. And as far as he knows, nobody else has been here since then.

From what he can see, most of the house seems intact, though the roof looks like it's missing a fair number of shingles. He glances through one window, just quickly, but can see nothing more than dead leaves and cobwebs.

His father did love trapping the doors, deterring anyone who wished to visit. Maeglin reaches up above the front lintel, fingers running along the wood until they catch on a small piece of metal sticking out from the lintel.

Predictably, the mechanism has rusted after so long. Maeglin ends up half-climbing up the side of the house to work it loose, using his dagger to dig out half the wood around the mechanism before he can disarm it. By the end he's sweating, blood smeared across his fingers from nicking himself with his dagger as he worked.

Maeglin's horse watches unconcerned from the edge of the clearing as Maeglin jumps back down. "Laugh all you like," Maeglin mutters, wiping at his forehead with his sleeve. "This is all the grass you're going to get here."

He doesn't have the key to the door. It doesn't much matter. He is a smith, one of the best there is amongst the Noldor, and he understands how locks work.

Tyelpë had given him a number of keys of different sizes and shapes when he left, as close to the original as Maeglin can remember, the one most likely lying at the bottom of a ravine. It takes him half an hour and a fair bit of work, but eventually the lock turns beneath his tools, and the door is open.

It occurs to Maeglin, as he eventually eases the door open and steps inside, he probably could have climbed in through a window.

The house is dark. Maeglin steps in carefully, testing the floorboards beneath his feet. His father hadn't tended to keep such dangers within the house when he was a child, but who knows what he did before he left to chase after them.

There's nothing there, not that he can find. Maeglin, sighs, dropping his head, and then strides over to the windows to throw the remaining shutters open.

He turns back to the house, the main room that he grew up in lit up for the first time in decades.

It's so…it's so small.

Maeglin makes himself breathe, and wills his hands to stop shaking. It's just a room.

It's just the first years of his life.

The table by the fire is still laid for a dinner they never ate. Maeglin remembers setting the plates out that morning, knives neatly beside each one. They never sat down to eat.

Everywhere he looks, there are remnants of his life still there, as if they were waiting for him to return. Nothing has been touched. A fine layer of dust and the cobwebs are the only signs inside that decades have passed.

Maeglin's legs are unsteady beneath him, but he can't sit down. If he sits down in the chair by the fire, the one his father used to link chain in during the evenings, the one his mother used to stand on to reach the highest shelves, then it will be real. Then it will all be real.

He grabs at the edge of the table. His fingers leave smears in the dust.

There are two doors off the main room. One is his own room, and he already knows there won't be anything in there worth taking. He had already taken anything he loved from this small house when they fled.

The other door is his parents' room. The room where his mother had been so unhappy for so long. Maeglin makes himself let go of the table, and goes to the door.

He doesn't know how long he stands in front of it before he pushes it open.

The bed is unmade.

He is on his knees in the grass. He can feel his body wracking with sobs, his mouth stretched in a silent keen of grief, fists grasping at the wet grass that rips so easily beneath his fingers.

He sobs and he sobs, thinking that soon he must run out of grief, but for all that he pours out into the grass beneath his hands there's just more waiting, more rising up from within his chest and spilling out his eyes and mouth, utterly unstoppable.

"My Lord."

At first, he thinks he's imagining the voice. He can barely hear anything at all over the rush of his own heartbeat in his ears, the only one of his family that still beats in this small clearing he once called his home.

Feet appear by his head, pressed against the grass, and then someone lowers themselves down onto their knees in front of them. "My Lord," they say quietly. “My Lord Maeglin. Do you remember me?”

Maeglin looks up, on his knees in the grass. His vision is blurred, but he can make out the shape of someone else, knelt down before him. Maeglin tries to pull in a breath, wiping at his eyes with the back of his hand. “Who-?”

They smile. “It’s Raedon, my Lord,” they say softly. “I don’t know if you remember me, you were only young when I served your father.”

Maeglin blinks. The figure in front of him resolves into a tan Elda with pale silver hair plaited down his back, dressed in simple greens and browns and a bag over their back. "Raedon," he gets out, wiping at his eyes. “I- yes, of course, I remember you.”

And he does. All the memories of those years here are flooding back now, on his knees in the grass, in front of the house where he was born. Raedon was one of the few servants that his father had kept around for a while, seeing to the house and the small plot of land, helping Ëol in the forges when Maeglin had been too young to do so. He had left when Maeglin had grown old enough to take over most of his duties, there one day and then gone the next.

He had been kind, Maeglin remembers. Snuck treats to him where he could, always careful and respectful around Aredhel. One time Maeglin had accidentally dropped a plate, watched it smash to pieces on the floor, and Raedon had taken the blame for it without a moment’s pause.

“What are you doing here?” he asks, sitting back on his heels. “What- it must have been decades since we last saw each other.”

Raedon smiles sadly. “It has. You have grown so much, my Lord, since those days.” He reaches out and grips Maeglin’s arm. “Are you well?” He looks Maeglin over, brow furrowed. “You do look well. Are they treating you right, so far up north?”

Maeglin nods his head, fresh tears spilling down his cheeks. “They are,” he gets out. “They- it’s better than I could have ever asked for.”

“And yet they let you come here, all on your own?” Raedon asks, frowning still. “That’s careless.”

Maeglin huffs a laugh. “When your uncles are the High King and King of the Noldor, it’s not quite as simple as that.” He wipes at his eyes again. “They did offer to send me with an escort, but I refused. I didn’t think any of them would make it through the Girdle.”

Raedon hums. “Well, you might be right, but still.” He gets to his feet, and offers Maeglin his hand. “My Lord?”

Maeglin lets himself be hauled to his feet. “What are you doing here?” he asks, heading to his small camp on the edge of the clearing. “Everything I had heard in Menegroth was that this house had been untouched since we left.”

Raedon bows his head. “I…followed you, actually,” he says. “I saw you in Menegroth, and when I heard where you were heading, when I heard the tale of what happened, I couldn’t help coming this way.” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to intrude, I just-”

“Probably best that you did,” Maeglin says wryly. He turns around, looking at the house with a sigh. “I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Raedon’s hand gently squeezes his shoulder. “You’re braver than I am,” he says quietly. “When I heard what had happened, when Ëol left and then never came back, I thought about trying to find you, but I was far too much of a coward to look.”

“You wouldn’t have found me,” Maeglin says quietly. “Gondolin was utterly impenetrable in those years. No going in, and no getting out.”

“Sounds awful,” Raedon says frankly.

Maeglin finds himself laughing. “You know what? It was, actually. It really was awful.” He pushes his braids back away from his face. “It’s been better since the Galad Lain, though. Far better. Barad Eithel is a good home.”

“Well, I’m glad,” Raedon says, and Maeglin can hear the honesty in his voice. He squeezes his shoulder again, and then lets his hand fall. “How far did you get in clearing the house out?”

Maeglin clears his throat. “Not- not far,” he admits. “I haven’t gone through anything in there yet. I don’t even know what’s left , but I doubt my father would have had much time to stow things here, and he didn’t have much on him when they searched him in Gondolin.” Besides the weapon he used to kill his mother, of course. “He always expected to come back here.”

Raedon hums. “Well, where do you want to start?”

Maeglin turns to him, eyes wide. “What- you don’t need to-”

“It’s the least I can do, my Lord,” Raedon says firmly. “It truly is.” He looks over at Maeglin. “I was there, my Lord. I saw how he treated you, I saw how unhappy your mother was. And I did nothing to stop it.”

“What could you have done?” Maeglin asks. “You were a servant to him. He wouldn’t have ever listened to you. He would have done worse than let you go, if you had tried to do anything other than take the blame for a few broken plates.”

“I know,” Raedon replies. “But I still did nothing.”

Maeglin still feels that urge to say that it wasn’t that bad, that his father had just been stern but had still loved him. But it has lessened much over the years, and he swallows the thoughts down easily enough. He has a family. He has his uncles, and Tyelpë. Him and Idril are friends now, exchanging letters nearly every month. At the anniversary last month he and Tyelpë, after their now usual lights display, were both dragged out drinking by some of the other smiths, and they had cheerily refused to take Maeglin’s feeble excuses for an answer, hopping between taverns until they found the right one and then stayed in there until the next morning. He has friends now, people that he never had in Gondolin, people who will pull him out of the forges when he’s in there too long or work on draft proposals with him until they’re done even if it’s late at night and they’re both exhausted.

He has a home , and it’s not here.

Maeglin blows out a breath. “Let’s clear out the main room first, and go from there,” he says. “I only really want sentimental items, or anything particularly valuable.” He knows that the ore his father used to make his sword and the one he paid Thingol with wasn’t the whole of the ore, and the rest must be hidden away somewhere. “Anything- anything of my mother’s, as well.”

“Of course.” Raedon rolls up his sleeves. “What’s it like inside?”

“Dusty.” Maeglin eases the front door open and steps inside. “It doesn’t look like anything has been touched since my father left.”

Raedon looks around. “Not much has changed since I was last here,” he muses, running a finger along one shelf and studying the thick film of grey left on his skin. “But then it was only a few years before you all left. I imagine whoever was here when you left would have just closed the house up as best they could when your father never came back, and left it all behind.” He sighs. “Where shall we start, my Lord?”

“Pull everything out and pile it on the table to begin with,” Maeglin says, looking around the room. “Unless it’s obviously broken or rotten through, then…”

“If I may?” Raedon asks. “Anything that is broken or otherwise useless we could burn in the forges. If we make a separate pile, then once we’ve cleared out the forges we can burn it all there.”

Maeglin breathes out. “Let’s do that. I’ll start at this side of the room, and you take the other?”

“Of course, my Lord,” Raedon says, and they get to work.

He thinks that the kitchen is going to be an easy enough place to start.

It is, for the most part. Maeglin pulls open cupboards and starts piling pots and pans and whatever utensils he can find on the table. They’re all well made, but with little refinement to most of them that he can see. Evidently, his father didn’t care much about decorating a frying pan. These can probably all go back to Menegroth, and get given out to anyone who needs them.

The cooking knives are dulled and rusted, but Maeglin can see the skill in them, and he sets them to one side. There are woven baskets, bottoms long since rotten through that Maeglin throws onto the pile by the back door. Most of the wooden cooking tools join them, and the piles on the table and by the door slowly grow bigger and bigger as they work. He slowly begins to work his way out across the rest of the main room. Raedon is up on a wobbling chair, pulling bundles of dried herbs down from the rafters and tossing them onto the burn pile.

Maeglin heads for the shelves beside the fire. Most of the things up here are for utility, and he hesitates over the spare sets of warm clothing tucked neatly into one of the shelves, scarves and hats and mittens. The winters here never got as cold as he has now become used to, but his mother was always insistent. Knowing the bitter cold of Hithlum and the northern lands as she once did, he can understand why.

It takes him a long time to take those clothes out of the shelves and set them on the burn pile. They’re moth-eaten and falling apart. They won’t be any use to him at all.

“I think we’re mostly done in here,” Raedon murmurs as the sun begins to set and the room becomes dim, long shadows stretching out across the floor. “I’ll see to dinner, my Lord.”

Maeglin tries futilely to brush some of the dust and cobwebs off of him. The burn pile is large, spilling out across the wooden floor in a clutter of objects all falling apart. There is a much smaller pile on the table, a carved wooden chest that Maeglin knows contains some of his father’s tools and papers, and a smaller one that was his mother’s sewing box.

She had been terrible at fixing his clothes, though Maeglin remembers her getting gradually better as he kept burning holes in his sleeves from the sparks of the forge. Now, with Celegorm’s carefully written down stories ringing in his ears and Fingon’s own tales over the years, he realises why. Her hands had been far more suited to a bow and arrow than a needle and thread.

When he heads outside, the sun is nearly set. Raedon has a fire going over where Maeglin had set up his small camp, and is carefully blowing air into the base of it until flames catch and start to lick at the kindling. “You don’t have to do this,” Maeglin says quietly as he joins him, pulling out some dried meats and offering Raedon some. “You’re not a servant here anymore.”

Raedon shrugs. “I don’t mind it,” he just replies easily. “Here, I brought a pheasant down on the way here, and it’s probably been hanging long enough.”

Sure enough, there’s a pheasant hanging up in a nearby tree from a piece of twine. Maeglin climbs up and cuts it free, and then sets to work plucking it as the fire slowly builds. Maedhros taught him this, when he had taken him and Tyelpë out into the mountains overnight. Ostensibly, they’d been looking for a new vein of ore, but it had been good weather and they’d mostly just spent three days walking through the mountains for the sake of it, Maedhros watching bemusedly as him and Tyelpë occasionally stopped and poked around the cliffs and purposefully tried to see what nonsense they could come up with about smithing that Maedhros would still believe. Tyelpë had somehow, beyond all belief, shot down a pheasant, and Maedhros' guards had gotten a few more. They had sat around the fire that night, Maedhros bracing one pheasant between his knees to show him how to pluck it as Tyelpë built up the fire and some of the guard prepared corn fritters.

“What is it like in Barad Eithel, then?” Raedon asks as they split the pheasant between them, juices dripping down Maeglin’s fingers as he pulls pieces of meat apart. “You look well, my Lord.”

“I am,” Maeglin replies. He watches the fire for a long moment, the flames licking their way up the logs. “It was…unexpected, at first. I’d spent decades in Gondolin, thinking I knew what the Noldor were like, and then I went to Barad Eithel after the Galad Lain and found out…well, that I was wrong about a lot of things.”

“They are good to you there?” Raedon asks, his voice careful. “Your uncles?”

“Better than I could have imagined, when I first arrived,” Maeglin says, his lips twisting in a wry smile. “The first year or so was hard, but not because of them. I wasn’t used to the idea that I didn’t have to…earn my keep, I suppose.” He glances at the house behind them, the dark silhouette in the night. “It’s taken a long time to unlearn that. It still catches me by surprise sometimes.”

“Your father had a lot to answer for,” Raedon says quietly.

“He was thrown off a cliff by my uncle,” Maeglin points out. He breathes out slowly, pulling off another piece of pheasant. “My other uncle, Turgon, not Fingon. Fingon has made it very clear that I never should have watched that.”

Raedon’s eyes are wide as he stares at him across the fire. “I’m sorry, did you just say that you watched your uncle execute your father by throwing him off a cliff?” he asks. “Who does that?”

Maeglin shakes his head. “His sister had just died. He wasn’t thinking straight.” He scuffs his heels across the grass, watching the small furrows that they pull up in the earth where he sits. “Turgon was kind to me, or he tried to be. I didn’t see it, and he didn’t see how I was hurting, and it all became more of a mess than it ought to be.”

“Still.” Raedon pulls off one of the pheasant’s legs, the joint snapping loudly in the quiet of the night. “If you’ll permit me saying it, my Lord, that’s fucked up.”

A laugh bursts from Maeglin’s lips, loud and ungainly. He knows he never laughed like that here, or in Gondolin. Even in Barad Eithel it took him a long time before Tyelpë could get him to laugh like that. “It was a bit, yes,” he admits. “I can see it now, much better than I used to.”

“I’m glad,” Raedon says. When Maeglin looks at him, he’s smiling sadly at him from across the fire. “I am, my Lord. You were…such a quiet child, when I knew you. I was worried, when I heard that you had left, and more worried still when Ëol never came back. When word reached us that you were in Barad Eithel, after the marchwardens returned to these woods and began to tell their tales, I was worried still. A child of the Sindar, now living as a Prince of the Noldor, away from everything he’d ever known?” His smile softens. “But I’m not worried anymore, my Lord. And I’m glad that they’ve been treating you well.”

“Fingon wants to make me his heir.”

There is silence for a long moment, broken only by the crackling of the fire. “He- well,” Raedon replies eventually, leaning back on his hands. “That is…something.”

Maeglin shrugs. “Him and Maedhros don’t have any children, not yet at least, and because of, well, everything, none of Maedhros’ brothers are in the line of succession. Curufin and Celegorm have been stripped of their titles completely, but given you’ve been in Menegroth, you probably already know that.”

Raedon hums. “I was surprised,” he admits. “More surprised that they seem to have stuck to it afterwards as well.”

Maeglin shrugs. “Maedhros means it when he says he wants peace,” he says quietly. “Turgon is technically the Crown Prince right now, and Fingon’s heir, but he’s not here. He won’t leave Gondolin, and Fingon doesn’t want to force him to do so, and the role of a Crown Prince needs that person to be in Barad Eithel. Turgon has the title, but none of the responsibilities.” He shrugs again. “I already carry most of them. Fingon just wants to make it official.”

“Do…do you want it, my Lord?” Raedon asks. “You could presumably always tell them no.”

Maeglin stares at the fire for a long moment. He knows that he doesn’t want to be the High King, but in these times of relative peace that is unlikely, and that’s not why Fingon is going to ask him to be Crown Prince. That’s not why Maedhros has been bringing him into more and more strategy meetings, taking him aside after councils and talking to him about everything he has learned wrangling his brothers and all the snarling factions of their alliance. Maedhros knows so much , so many little details about all the different factions and allies and ordinary people who nevertheless hold sway over something important. A few months from now, he and Maedhros are due to go out to Himring together. Maeglin knows it’s just another step in making sure he knows everything he needs to know before he can fully take on the role.

“I already do almost all the work,” he says eventually, watching the flames lick at the logs in front of him. “It’s…it’s nice that Fingon wants to recognise that officially. Though I imagine it will come with a number of irritating trappings.”

“Oh?” Raedon asks.

Maeglin scowls at the fire. “Fingon wants me to have a guard, as he and Maedhros do. It’s unnecessary. Fingon is the High King, so of course requires a guard, and Maedhros is often abroad from Barad Eithel and so requires a guard to accompany him. Let alone the voice that the more strident Fëanorians feel it gives them."

"How so?" Raedon asks.

"Maedhros' head guard, Gwedhron, was one of Fëanor's vanguard," Maeglin replies, poking at the fire with the stick the pheasant had been on. "When he died, I mean. He was one of the first to swear allegiance to Maedhros for the short time he was High King, and again when he handed the crown over to Fingolfin. He's not vocal about it, too loyal to Maedhros to stir up trouble, but a lot of the hardline Fëanorians talk to him. He brings their concerns to Maedhros. They feel listened to, Maedhros knows what the more volatile elements of his House are thinking, and Fingon gets someone who is violently loyal to keep his husband safe. It all works out."

"And it wouldn't work out for you?" Raedon asks. "These lands are still dangerous, my Lord. A guard would be useful, especially if, for example, you were heading all on your own into a remote part of another realm." He gives Maeglin a somewhat pointed look. "It may be useful. Especially when you become Crown Prince."

"When?" Maeglin asks, arching a brow. "Fingon hasn't asked yet. I haven't accepted."

"I remember a young child here, so stern and serious in trying to earn his father's approval," Raedon says softly, looking over at the shadow of the house behind them. "But I remember how smart he was, even so young, and how determined he was to be better at anything he tried." He smiles slightly. "I remember what you looked like when your mind was made up, as well."

Maeglin huffs a laugh. "I'm surprised you remember," he says. "It was all a long time ago."

"Some things stay with you, my Lord," Raedon just says. "Some things you just remember."

0-o-0-o-0

The next morning, they tackle the bedrooms.

Maeglin stands in front of his parents' room. The door is still ajar from where he had pushed it open yesterday, the bed still unmade when he steps over the threshold. When he pulls open the closet doors, hinges creaking, his father's clothes still hang there.

He had hidden in the bottom of the wardrobe once, stuffing himself in amongst his father's thick furs and forge aprons. Looking back, he's sure that his mother knew almost immediately where he had gone to hide, but she had drawn it out anyway, calling out to him in a singsong voice as she searched around the house. Maeglin had pulled down one of his father's coats to hide under, and when she had finally found him she had bundled him out of the closet, coat and all, and tossed him up into the air with a laugh as he shrieked.

The coats are moth-eaten and falling apart when Maeglin finally pulls them out from where they're hanging. His father was shorter than him, he realises. The fur coats that once swallowed him whole would barely reach his knees.

He tosses them out of the room and in the vague direction of the burn pile. He doesn't need any of these.

Raedon has taken Maeglin's own room, given that Maeglin knows there is nothing more of value left in there. He can hear the occasional thud and grunt of effort as he works, and soon the piles are added to with clothes that Maeglin vaguely remembers that are now far too small, old half-finished projects and pieces of wood he'd started whittling and then discarded for something else.

There's not much left of his mother's in the room, beyond clothes that Maeglin now knows she wouldn't have worn if she had much of a choice. Dark greens and browns and blues that she had dyed herself in the summer, with the woad that grows in thick clumps down by the river.

He knows now that she had always favoured whites. That she was famed for it, in the life she had before he ever existed.

She wore white when they fled. A dress he had never seen before, hidden away somewhere he had never found in his games of hiding in these closets.

He pulls out what is left. Dresses and shirts and belts get neatly folded and set on the unmade bed. A pair of slippers join them, the red ones that she had spent so much time making one winter. He finds an old saddlebag in the closet and carefully places them all inside.

He's not sure what he will do with it all. Maybe Fingon will want some of it. Maybe he'll get back to Barad Eithel just to throw it all away in the end.

The closets lie empty and bare. Maeglin turns to the rest of the room.

His father had kept chests under the bed. Maeglin drags them out, coughing at the plumes of dust that rise up as they're disturbed.

Raedon appears in the doorway. "There's not much else left in your own room," he says, wincing at the amount of dust now coating Maeglin. "I'll give it another go-over before you sort through everything I pulled out." He eyes the boxes on the floor that Maeglin is kneeling in front of. "Surely those are locked?"

"I'm a smith," Maeglin says, gritting his teeth as he tugs one of the chests further out into the room and pulls out a slim set of tools. "I make locks. I know locks."

These were locks made by his father. They end up taking the chests out into the main room where there's more light and space to work. Raedon leaves him alone after a few moments, and Maeglin can hear the occasional clatter of him continuing to work as he slowly works away at the locks.

His fingers are aching fiercely by the time the first one finally gives. Maeglin huffs a sigh of relief, stretching out his fingers.

As he eases the lid open a crack, it occurs to him that his father could have trapped this as well as the front door. Well, it's too late now.

The list creaks open with no tricks. Maeglin breathes a sigh of relief, and gets to work.

Beneath a protective layer of oilskin, he finds layer upon layer of scrolls. His father's work. He remembers these, the candles his father would burn through at night as he feverishly wrote page after page. Some of these, Maeglin realises as he parses through them, aren't even his father's. At least half a dozen scrolls bear Belegost's sigils. One of them Maeglin recognises immediately as Azaghal's seal. When he unfurls them, he finds Khuzdul instead of his father's hand.

He sets those ones aside. If nothing else, he highly doubts that Azaghal just handed them over, and he might want his stolen property back.

No sign of any of his father's more expensive materials, though, and Maeglin resigns himself to aching fingers as he turns to the second chest.

Now that he understands how his father made these locks, this one goes quicker. Maeglin cracks the lid and eases it open, peering inside.

Raedon finds him there maybe ten minutes later, still in the same position as before. "My Lord?" he asks.

Maeglin manages one shuddering breath, and then another. "He kept them," he whispers. "He- I thought he had thrown them away, or- or melted them down and repurposed them into something else." His knuckles are white where he's gripping the lid. "But he kept them."

Raedon's hand finds his shoulder. "Ah," he says quietly, leaning over to peer into the chest. "These were yours?"

Maeglin makes himself nod. "That knife is the first thing I ever made in the forge," he murmurs. "Appalling by my standards now, but…he kept it."

Raedon’s hand tightens on Maeglin’s shoulder. Maeglin knows he will have noticed the other things. The clumsily carved wooden fox, the tiny shoes that he knows his father made himself, the set of forge tools evidently made for a smaller hand than the one that carefully picks them up out of the box.

"These were all mine," he whispers. "These are…why did he keep them? Why would we have kept all of this?"

Raedon sighs. “It would be easier if they were just entirely awful, wouldn’t it?” he says quietly. “If it only hurt, and nothing else.”

Maeglin grips the tools, now far too small for his hand, so tight that it hurts. “Yes,” he murmurs. “It would.”

Raedon's hand tightens on his shoulder. "Probably not the best time," he says hesitantly, "but I found this, hidden beneath your bed."

Maeglin looks over, and then down at the thing in his hand. His breath stops in his throat.

Raedon gently sets a bow on the table. It's unstrung, an old and fraying string wrapped around one end, and covered in dust. Maeglin reaches out and smears some of the dust away with a finger, revealing a deep red wood beneath. 

The bow is short, but not small. He wouldn't have recognised it if he had found it as a child, but he knows now what a Noldorin bow looks like when it's made to be used from horseback.

“It was under my bed?” he manages to ask. He uses his sleeve to remove more of the dust, slowly revealing a twisting pattern of carved lines running up the length of the wood.

Raedon’s hand is heavy on his shoulder. “I think…I think she hid it there, my Lord,” he says quietly. “Your father would not have taken so kindly to a reminder like this. But she didn’t want to part with it.”

She had been a formidable hunter. Maeglin never saw it. He only has the memories of others to tell him of it all.

He sets the bow down carefully on top of the chests. “Fingon would like to have it,” he hears himself say. “He’s an archer too.”

“My Lord?”

“Give me a moment.”

He’s outside, though he doesn’t remember his feet bringing him there. His horse watches unconcerned from her tether. The house looms over his shoulder.

He picks a direction, and starts walking. Only far enough that he can no longer see that little clearing and the house within it that was his life for so long, everything he had ever known that had turned out to all be wrong in the end. The trees are close around him, and the sunlight barely reaches the forest floor, and Maeglin sinks down to the ground and presses his forehead against the rough bark of a tree, and lets himself tremble and fall apart for a moment.

When he returns, Raedon is cooking over a new-built fire. He’s brought out one of the pans from the pile on the table and has set it up over some rocks, stirring what smells like sausages. “You don’t need to do that,” Maeglin says as he approaches and notes that it’s definitely enough food for two people. “You’re not my servant.”

Raedon shrugs. “I was,” he replies. “Besides, you look like you could do with some food.”

Maeglin sits down by the fire. "We're going to need to work out what we can bring back with us, and what we'll have to leave behind," he says quietly. "I only have so many saddlebags."

"Now that the house is safe, I imagine you could leave whatever you don't want to keep but is still useful outside, and it'll inevitably be gone in a few weeks."

Maeglin arches a brow. "In Barad Eithel, that's called stealing."

"Well, here it's repurposing, and it's fine," Raedon says. "It's generally known that if you leave something outside, far enough away from your front door, it's for anyone to take."

"That sounds…prone to problems," Maeglin muses. "What delineates the distance needed? In a city, what is far enough away from your own door might be outside someone else's."

"No cities here," Raedon points out. "Not beyond Menegroth, and that works under its own rules. Even our largest villages are far more spread out than what it must be like in Barad Eithel."

"We've started expanding the city recently, actually," Maeglin remarks. "Well, the city has been expanding on its own since the Galad Lain, and we've only just now started formalising it properly." They’ve had to rework the structure of some of the city entirely to account for the camps outside the walls that slowly turned into permanent homes. There’s an entire Fëanorian quarter on the northern side now. Leave enough Noldor alone with some free time and tools for long enough, and apparently they’ll build a city without you even asking. The main problems are arising when one group’s build abuts another’s, and the latest innovations in road layout and plumbing clash with each other.

It’s been a constant headache for the past two years. Fingon has handed as much as he can off to Turgon, who is experienced with these sorts of problems, but there’s only so much he can do when he remains in Gondolin. The rest is Maeglin’s headache to deal with.

Before Maeglin can intervene, Raedon has plated up two meals and is handing one over, despite Maeglin’s look. “Is there much left in your parents’ room?” he asks. “I can finish it, if you’d like.”

Maeglin shakes his head. “Not much beyond some of my father's clothes and belongings are left. He has a smaller lockbox somewhere as well, one that contained some valuables. I haven't found it yet, but he might have hidden it."

"Two hands will be better than one, if you want to tear their room apart to look for it." Raedon finishes his last mouthful and sets his plate aside. "It's just the forge left after that, yes?"

Maeglin nods. "We might be able to finish today."

"Well then," Raedon says, getting to his feet. "Better keep working then. The sooner we're done here, the sooner you get to go home."

0-o-0-o-0

It takes them nearly another hour to clear out the rest of the house. His father's lockbox is eventually found beneath a floorboard that Maeglin pries up when it squeaks beneath his foot. It's filled with uncut gems and rings that Maeglin vaguely remembers his father wearing over the years. He sets the box with the other chests, and turns to survey the rest of the house.

"Just the forge left," Raedon says quietly.

Maeglin squares his shoulders and turns to face the door. "Let's just get it over with."

The forge is cold. He knows he shouldn't be surprised by that, it's been decades since the fires here were last lit, but somehow he still expected that blast of hot air as he opened the door and stepped through.

"There'll be some valuable materials in here that I can take back," Maeglin says around the lump in his throat as he steps inside. "I'll start the fire to burn the discard pile, if you start searching. Be on the lookout for a dark ore, probably kept somewhere safe. That’s very valuable.”

“Dark ore, somewhere safe,” Raedon repeats. “Why is it so valuable?”

“It’s the remains of a meteor that fell not far from here,” Maeglin says over his shoulder as he starts shovelling coal into the bed of the forge. “My sword is made from it, as is the one that my father used to pay for this domain.” That one is sitting somewhere in Menegroth’s vaults, most likely. He should ask about that when he travels through there on his way back. Hopefully he, and more importantly Maedhros, have established enough of a rapport for him to ask for it back, given that he has no intention of claiming this house or any of the land of Nan Elmoth.

He has considered it. Politically, it would be a smart if risky move, a Prince of the Noldor rightfully able to enter Nan Elmoth and thus Doriath as he pleases. But it would be unnecessarily inflammatory to Thingol’s supporters, and risk discord they don’t need. Besides, he doesn’t want it.

He doesn’t want to be here. He wants to be in the warm forges of Barad Eithel, soot-stained windows that will never get truly clean, Tyelpë’s messes endlessly encroaching on his territory even though they have separate workshops. Maeglin, after a lot of debate, has even promised not to tidy Tyelpë’s workshop for him. He wants his own chambers, outfitted just as he likes with all his clothes and books, and the expansive library that he and Fingon’s advisors have spent hours working in to the point that they have their own table that everybody else knows not to use.

He wants the family room that is always filled with at least two or three of his family, the one that makes Maedhros roll his eyes whenever someone calls it the family room . He’s heard all the stories about that now, even the ones that Celegorm tells when he appears that have everyone else groaning and throwing bread at him across the breakfast table that Ryn happily snaps up off the floor.

He wants to go home.

The sensation hits him so hard, right between the ribs, that he has to stop and breathe through it for a moment.

Another moment, and he starts lighting the forge.

There is a massive pile of things to burn. Maeglin opens up the flue and starts bringing things through, feeding them into the fire one by one. Doing this in a working forge would be a disaster in the long term, all the detritus utterly choking the coal bed, but this isn’t a working forge. He doesn’t care if it will never work properly again.

“This is all I’ve found,” Raedon says after a while, looking down at a pile of boxes and bags on the workbench. “No dark ore as far as I’ve seen, but some of these boxes are locked.”

“Let me look.” Maeglin feeds another basket onto the fire and then heads over. Sure enough, Raedon has found the lockboxes he remembers his father keeping valuables in. A little work and he’s able to pop the locks and get them open, to reveal three boxes filled with various ingots and uncut gems, and one box filled entirely with ingots of dark metal.

Maeglin unsheathes his sword and compares the two. “This is it,” he says over his shoulder. “The contents of this box are probably worth more than everything else in this house, including all those gems.”

Raedon’s eyebrows are so high they’re almost disappearing into his hair. “Just that?” he asks.

“It’s all there is in the world, as far as I know,” Maeglin points out. “Besides what has already been forged into the two blades that my father made.” He sheaths his sword again, and carefully shuts the box. “Tyelpë is going to be thrilled. He’s been after my sword for years , and there’s enough in here to make at least three more, if we’re careful and are clever with the alloys.”

“I’ll take your word for it, my Lord,” Raedon just says. “Shall I move everything that we’re taking out to your camp and start packing them?” At Maeglin’s nod, he picks up the boxes and starts heading outside.

Maeglin throws the last of the things on the discard pile into the forge, one by one. When he goes back into the house proper, it’s a shell of its former self. The shelves by the fire are bare, the kitchen cupboards hanging empty. Maeglin trails his fingers across the table, fingertips skimming over notches from his father sharpening knives at dinner, the stain from where his mother was trying to dye fabric and got it wrong.

His foot catches something. He looks down to see a small mitten that must have been knocked to the floor at some point. When he bends down to pick it up, the dark green wool is soft in his hands.

Maeglin slips it into his pocket, and turns to look around the rest of the room. The dust has been disturbed by countless footprints and hands, the cupboards open with shelves bare. There are no more herb bundles hanging over his head, no chair positioned close to the fire for his mother to see by as she darned holes in his clothes. The forge is lit, but he can smell the burning of wicker baskets and wool that he knows would send his father into a rage.

Maeglin finds himself not caring much what his father would think. He grabs the last box on the table, picks up his mother’s old bow, and lets the front door fall shut behind him for the last time.

Raedon, unsurprisingly, is starting a fire. The saddlebags are neatly packed beside him, and he immediately takes the last box out of Maeglin’s hands to add to one of them. “I know you’re going to tell me that I didn’t have to,” he says before Maeglin can say anything. “But I wanted to.”

Maeglin considers him for a moment. “Actually, I was going to ask how attached you are to staying in Menegroth,” he asks.

Raedon eyes him. “Why?” he asks. “Where else could I go?”

“You don’t have to say yes, but Idhron has been after me to find myself a valet,” Maeglin offers. “I’d rather it be you than someone else that I don’t know, and who doesn’t know how to dress Sindarin styles as I sometimes wear.” Raedon is just staring at him, eyes wide, and Maeglin shakes his head. “You can refuse me, of course. Barad Eithel is the heart of the Noldor. I’d understand if you didn’t want to be anywhere near that.”

Raedon shakes his head slowly. “You’ve done well there,” he says before Maeglin’s heart can sink too deeply. “It’s been good for you. I imagine I could do alright there as well.”

“You’ll do it?” Maeglin asks. He can’t help but smile. “Thank you, Raedon. That means a lot to me.”

“I’ll have to return to Menegroth and tie things up there,” Raedon says. “But I’ll follow you up north. There’s not much for me in Menegroth anyway. Hasn’t been for a while.”

“I’ll have an escort wait at the border for you,” Maeglin promises. “It’s a much safer journey now, but it’s best not to leave anything to chance.”

It’s too late to leave now. They sit around the fire one last time, the house dark and empty behind them. The sky is clear above them, and as Maeglin lies down to sleep, he stares up at the stars high above their heads.

His father had named the constellations, one by one as they lay out on the grass together. Later, his mother had brought him out with her, and had whispered the Quenya names into his ear as they watched the skies overhead.

Maeglin tells himself their names, whispering them in both tongues until he falls asleep.

0-o-0-o-0

“Are you ready?”

Maeglin takes a breath, and feels the weight of the robes on his shoulders, the way they fall around him as he takes a few steps across the room. They’re a vibrant royal blue, accented with reds in just the right amount to echo the red and blue banners flying high on the city walls. He has his signet ring on his hand that Fingon commissioned for him, one of Tyelpë’s necklaces around his neck. His head is bare of a circlet, for now. His hair is braided close to his head and falling down his back, and Maeglin runs his hand down to the small blue beads that tie them off.

Fingon wears his hair the same way, most days. His mother had, as well.

There is a niphredil in the brooch at his throat. It’s small, but it’s there.

Maeglin breathes out, and stares at himself in the mirror. “Ready,” he says, and Raedon smiles at him in the reflection.

There’s a knock at the door, and then Celebrimbor is poking his head in. “Very smart,” he says with a grin as he slips inside. “Everyone’s ready for you, Lómion.”

Raedon looks over him one last time. “You’ll do, my Lord,” he says with a smile. “And if I say so myself, I have done very well.”

“You have, Raedon.” Maeglin reaches out and grips his hand. “Thank you.”

He heads out of the dressing room, and with Celebrimbor grinning at his side, makes his way to the main square.

Every year, he and Celebrimbor light up the skies above the marble floor with their creations. He has stood on the steps more times than he can remember, welcoming people into Barad Eithel at Fingon’s shoulder. Now, he stands in front of him, and kneels on the cold marble stone as Fingon places a crown on his head.

“Rise, Maeglin Aredhelion,” Fingon says with a beaming smile. “Crown Prince of the Noldor in Beleriand.”

Maeglin gets steadily to his feet. There is a breath of silence as he turns to the awaiting crowd, and then Celebrimbor whoops in glee, and the entire courtyard erupts into cheers and applause.

There is work to do. People to greet, alliances to strengthen even at his own celebration. As music strikes up and tables are brought out, Maeglin descends the steps at Fingon and Maedhros’ side, and he can’t stop the smile that spreads on his face.

Two familiar figures step out from the crowd. Turgon heads straight for him, his daughter on his arm. "Congratulations, Maeglin," he says with a soft smile as he clasps his shoulder. "You are far more deserving of this honour and responsibility than I am."

Turgon had handed over the title without a single complaint or objection. Maeglin smiles at him, and finds that he means it. "Thank you, uncle," he says softly. "I believe Maedhros wanted to talk to you, if you want to try and avoid him for a little while."

Turgon laughs, and claps his shoulder. "I shall go and find Húrin and Huor. They will protect me, if I need it." He presses a kiss to Idril's hair, and then turns and disappears into the crowd.

Idril has a beaming smile on her face as she turns to Maeglin. “Congratulations, cousin,” she says, clasping his hands tightly. “There could be nobody better, I know it.”

“Idril,” Maeglin breathes. “It is so good to see you. How have you been? Your last letter said you were considering a visit, but I didn’t know you were coming to this .”

“And miss your crowning?” Idril smacks his arm, and then links her own arm with his. “Don’t be ridiculous, Maeglin. I wouldn’t miss this for the world.” She looks around them. “Now, won’t you introduce me to your friends? It has been so long since I have had the chance to meet new people.”

Maeglin is helpless to resist her grip on his arm. “You should meet Tyelpë first,” he says as he leads her across the courtyard. “But I apologise in advance for anything he might say. He is incorrigible.”

“I barely remember him from when I was a child, but given the amount you have complained about him in your letters, I am well prepared.” Idril grins up at him. “It is good to see you again, cousin, it really is. When you first left after the Galad Lain I was worried for you, but I see it was needless. You have become something so much more here than you ever were in Gondolin.”

Maeglin breathes in, and feels the weight of the circlet on his head. It feels like it fits. “I have,” he says honestly. “More than I ever expected.” Idril squeezes his arm, and Maeglin lets himself enjoy this, just for a moment.

He needn’t have worried about Celebrimbor. One word from Idril and he is charmed entirely, Maeglin watching with a growing smile as Idril carefully wraps him around her finger without him seeming to even realise it. She stays on his arm as he starts doing the rounds of everyone he needs to talk to, sweetly charming even the most hardline of Maedhros’ captains. “Can I steal you for Barad Eithel?” Maeglin asks after the third captain leaves with a smile on their face. “You’ll make my life so much easier.”

Idril laughs. “I’ll consider a loan, if you don’t make me host any garden parties,” she replies. “But I think my father is about to ask Húrin and Huor to come and visit Gondolin with their families, and I would dearly like to see the chaos that ensues from that, so it might have to wait a little while. Perhaps you might come and visit instead.”

“Gondolin does not hold the fondest of memories for me,” Maeglin says quietly. “And I imagine I am about to be very busy. One day, perhaps.”

Idril just squeezes his arm. “Of course. It’ll be there when you are ready.”

Maedhros appears at his side, the crowd parting for him. “If I might steal the Crown Prince, my Lady,” he says to Idril with a smile. “There’s someone you need to meet, Lómion.”

“Of course.” Idril slips her arm out of Maeglin’s and reaches up on her tiptoes to press a kiss to his cheek. “I’m happy for you, cousin,” she whispers in his ear. “Promise me you’ll let yourself be happy as well.”

Maeglin can hear Tyelpë laughing nearby. Maedhros’ hand is warm on his shoulder, and Fingon hasn’t stopped beaming with pride ever since he set the circlet on Maeglin’s head. “I’ll do my best,” Maeglin promises her. “Thank you, Idril.”

She gives him one last smile, and then drifts off into the crowd. “I won’t take too much of your time,” Maedhros says as he steers Maeglin across the courtyard towards Fingon. “But there are gifts for you to receive.”

“I did say I didn’t want any,” Maeglin protests. “What would I do with a bunch of useless trinkets except turn them into something else? And that just seems rude.”

Maedhros laughs. “You’ll like this one, I think,” he says.

Fingon is holding court with Beleg and Mablung and a number of Sindarin elves that Maeglin doesn’t recognise, likely the escort that brought the marchwardens here. “There you are,” Fingon says as they approach. “Beleg?”

Beleg steps forwards and bows his head. “Congratulations, my Lord,” he says. “Queen Melian sends her regards, and asked me to bring you a gift from her, in recognition of where you have come from.” One of the other elves hands a long wrapped package to him, and Beleg holds it out. “For you, with her regards.”

Maeglin takes it, pulling back the deep green cloth. A longbow sits in his hands.

He recognises the type, even unstrung. It could be twin to the one that Beleg carries with him even now. “I can’t accept this,” he whispers. “This is- this is a Doriathrim longbow. I can’t possibly-”

“I’ll teach you the differences to the Noldorin style,” Beleg says, as if Maeglin hasn’t even said anything. “And I’ll teach you how to string it properly as well.”

Maeglin stares at him. The Doriathrim string their bows with their own hair, he knows. It’s an incredibly closely guarded secret. “Beleg, I-”

Fingon’s hand comes to rest on the nape of his neck. “You may be the Crown Prince of the Noldor,” Beleg says easily. “But you’re a son of Doriath as well, and kin there besides. You should bear a weapon befitting your status in our woods.”

“And what is that?” Maeglin asks, swallowing heavily. “What am I to Doriath now?”

As one, the marchwardens and their escort drop to one knee. The crowd quiets, turning towards them. “Hail, Maeglin Aredhelion,” Beleg says clearly as he looks up to him, his voice ringing out across the courtyard. “Crown Prince of the Noldor and kin of Doriath, as granted by High King Fingon of the Noldor and Queen Melian of Doriath. May the beasts of the woods and the birds of the sky grant you welcome in your journeys.”

“May the trees know your steps in their boughs as one of their own,” Maeglin replies. He remembers that one.

Fingon’s hand is warm on the nape of his neck as Beleg and Mablung get to their feet. “I’m so proud of you, nephew,” he whispers in Maeglin’s ear. “We both are.”

Maedhros hums. “Of course we are, Lómion. So very proud.” He squeezes his shoulder. “Your mother would be, as well.”

Maeglin swallows around the lump in his throat. “She would, wouldn’t she?” he asks Fingon.

Fingon’s eyes are bright as he presses a kiss to Maeglin’s forehead. “She would be so happy,” he whispers. “So very happy. You’ve made her so proud.”

Maeglin swallows again, and reaches for one of the blue beads at the end of a braid. His father would have been so furious, if he had somehow ever seen this. His mother would have been so proud.

There are probably worse ideas to live by, but this will do for now.

finis

Chapter Text

The courtyard is absolute chaos.

Maeglin slips down from his horse as the Fëanorian battalion streams into the yard and starts dismounting and leading their horses away, as the crowds on the streets as they rode in continue to cheer and sing aloud in celebration. The cacophony is almost overwhelming, and Maeglin leans into his horse for just a moment as he squeezes his eyes shut.

“Lómion?”

A hand gently grips his shoulder. “I’m taking Tyelpë to Haerel,” Curufin says. “Just to get checked over. I’d like you to come as well, if you want to.” He glances around at the chaos, gaze lingering on Maedhros wrapped up in Fingon’s arms with Ereinion nestled between them. “It’ll be a lot quieter than all of this.”

Maeglin doesn’t hesitate. The long ride has obviously not done Celebrimbor any favours, and Curufin is leaning heavily on his cane, so Maeglin shoulders most of Celebrimbor’s weight and helps him limp off towards the healers’ halls. Red moves out of the corner of his eye, and he turns just to see Maedhros turn and watch them move slowly across the courtyard, a frown furrowing his brow. Something uneasy settles beneath Maeglin’s ribs, but before he can do anything Curufin waves his hand and Maedhros relaxes, turning away again to Fingon.

Haerel meets them at the front doors. “Someone has explained most of what happened in a very rushed briefing,” they say, ushering them inside and towards the nearest private room, “but if you could fill in the gaps, that would be appreciated.”

“It wasn’t the Dwarves’ fault,” Celebrimbor says, hissing slightly as Maeglin lowers him down onto the waiting bed and helps him swing his leg up onto the mattress. “They were scared.”

Maeglin sits down on the end of the bed as Haerel carefully starts cutting through the bandages wrapped around his thigh. “A Dwarven axe did this then?” they ask as they start to tease the bandages away from the long slice through Celebrimbor’s thigh. “How much did it bleed?”

Celebrimbor shrugs, wincing as the bandages stick to dried blood. His leg jerks, and Maeglin puts a hand on his ankle. “I don’t know, I passed out,” he says. “When I came to, Lúthien had already stitched it up and bandaged it.”

That makes Haerel pause. They sit back on the nearby chair. “Explain. In detail, please.” Celebrimbor opens his mouth, and then pauses as Haerel abruptly raises one hand. “Wait one moment.” They turn towards Maeglin. “Are you in need of attention? Nobody mentioned any other casualties beyond Celebrimbor, but I know how easily messages can get jumbled.”

Maeglin shakes his head. “I’m just tired,” he replies. “Nothing that won’t fix itself within a few nights of good sleep. Go on, Tyelpë. Explain this one, please.”

Celebrimbor sticks out his tongue at Maeglin, and then quickly retracts it at the look on Curufin’s face. “Sorry, Atar.”

Maeglin doesn’t need to listen to Celebrimbor’s rambling account of the past few days. Even the parts that he had missed, riding as fast as his exhausted horse could manage north across the plains and then riding even faster back south, Celebrimbor had filled him in on already. Curufin knows most of it as well, and by the sound of clinking dishware and low murmur of conversation, is apparently busying himself by fetching food and water for the both of them as Haerel listens intently.

Eventually Celebrimbor trails off. “That’s it,” he says with a shrug. “Then we came home.” He glances down at his leg. “I think they did a good job?”

Haerel carefully peels back the last few bandages and studies the neat row of black thread running up Celebrimbor’s leg. Maeglin swallows heavily, and looks away. “Not bad, for field conditions and riding on it for a few days,” Haerel says eventually. “It does look a little inflamed, likely from the riding, so I’ll clean it up, apply some paste to prevent any latent infections, and wrap it back up.” They lean over to a nearby shelf filled with healing supplies. “You can walk on it if it doesn’t cause too much pain, but if the pain suddenly changes or becomes worse, take the weight off your feet and let me know immediately.”

Celebrimbor hums, letting his head fall back onto the waiting pillow as Haerel starts working. “I’ll make sure he rests,” Maeglin says. His hand is still resting on Celebrimbor’s ankle, thumb smoothing over the thin skin stretched across his ankle bone again and again. “And doesn’t do anything stupid.”

“Thank you for your confidence in me,” Celebrimbor says, but the fond smile he gives Maeglin eases something in Maeglin’s chest. “Atar, are there any honey cakes?”

“If Haerel is content with you eating their entire stock, then yes,” Curufin says as he comes back to the bed, hands filled with a carafe of what must be water, earthenware mugs and a cloth-covered bowl. His cane is hooked over his arm, and Maeglin reaches out and takes it off of Curufin’s arm before it can fall. “Thanks,” he says as Curufin hands out the mugs and fills them up, the water splashing slightly as his hand trembles. Maeglin just blots the water away with his sleeve. His shirt has certainly seen worse than a few spilled drops of water over the past few days.

Celebrimbor dives onto the honey cakes, cramming two in his mouth all at once. “Haerel, I know where you get these is a trade secret, but please . I need to know.”

Haerel huffs a laugh. “I promised confidentiality, and I keep my promises,” they say, tidying up around the bed. “But there will always be a steady supply in these halls for you to pilfer when you see fit.”

They continue to tidy up as Curufin sits down next to Maeglin on the end of the bed and Celebrimbor finally relinquishes the bowl of honey cakes. Maeglin leans into Curufin slightly as he licks the honey off his fingers. “I’ll need to go to Fingon soon,” he murmurs. He can’t fathom where he’ll get the energy to get up off this bed and walk up all the steps to Fingon’s study, but he’ll have to find it from somewhere. “There’s so much work that’ll need doing.”

Curufin gently pushes one of Maeglin’s dusty braids back behind his ear. “There’s nothing so urgent that it can’t wait until you’ve had a bath, eaten something beyond honey cakes, and slept. It’s been…it’s been a few days of enormous change. Everyone needs to adjust.”

Celebrimbor hums around the honey cake in his mouth, but Maeglin can tell it’s suddenly uncertain. He looks over at him, quirking an eyebrow, but Celebrimbor shakes his head in the way that Maeglin knows means not now.

“You’re free to go,” Haerel says once they’ve finished off the cakes and water. “Celebrimbor, take it easy on that leg. I’ll come and check on you in three days, but let me know immediately if something changes.”

Celebrimbor nods, swinging his legs off the bed and letting Maeglin help pull him up. “Thank you, Haerel,” he says. “Sorry for giving you more work.”

Haerel scoffs. “This is the least work I’ve had after one of Lord Maedhros’ excursions for a long while,” they say. “Unless there’s a sudden flood of injured coming my way that nobody has told me about?”

Celebrimbor snorts. “No, it was just me,” he says with a wry smile. “It did actually end up all being very civilised, somehow.” He shrugs, leaning heavily on Maeglin’s shoulder. “Probably nothing to do with me, if we’re being honest. Lómion is the one with the head for politics.”

Maeglin shoulders Celebrimbor’s weight uncomplainingly. “You’re the one who met Dior and decided to be kind,” he says softly. “I think that changed everything.”

Celebrimbor hums, and leans his head against Maeglin’s shoulder. “You’re the one who turned back,” he says, just as soft. “I think that changed pretty much everything as well. Who knows what would have happened if Maedhros had gotten the third Silmaril and I was still with Beren and Lúthien?”

Maeglin shudders. He can imagine some of the worst case scenarios. “Very true,” he murmurs. “Come on, let’s get you to bed. I am not above enlisting the guards to help carry you up all the stairs, so behave.”

By the time they’ve stumbled their way up into the citadel, Curufin enlisting a few guards to help when Maeglin starts wincing at the weight of Celebrimbor against him, and they’ve eaten and bathed, Maeglin both feels a little more alive and even more exhausted. Curufin seems somewhat reluctant to let either of them out of his sight and so they end up in Celebrimbor’s bed, Curufin settling himself in the armchair as he stokes the fire.

The covers are heavy and warm, and Celebrimbor is already asleep beside him, breathing steadily. Maeglin’s eyes start to drift shut.

There is a quiet knock at the door, and then the creak of hinges. “Curufin, I just wanted to- ah,” Maeglin hears Fingon say. “Are they asleep?”

“Not quite,” Maeglin murmurs, making himself sit up in the bed. “Do you need anything from me, Fingon?”

Fingon takes one look at him and huffs a laugh. “I need you to go to sleep, I think,” he says with a smile. “I just wanted to check in on you and Tyelpë, as I didn’t get a chance to earlier.”

Curufin hums. “Yes, sorry Fingon, but I wanted to get Haerel to check Tyelpë out sooner than later. Nothing worrying, by the way. He just needs to rest.” He sniffs. “Lúthien did an acceptable job at stitching him up.”

“She was kind,” Maeglin says, the sleep just snatched out of his grasp making him speak before thinking. “She was scared, but she was decent and kind to us.”

Curufin purses his lips. Fingon poorly conceals a snort of laughter as a cough. “Yes, well, we can talk at length tomorrow. Lómion, I’m particularly keen to know your opinion of Dior, and how you think he might take up the mantle of Doriath’s throne, but it can all wait until tomorrow.” He smiles at Maeglin, warm and fond, and then crosses from the door to beside the bed and bends down to press a kiss to Maeglin’s forehead. “Russo told me what you and Tyelpë did,” he says. “At the border of Nan Elmoth. That was very brave of the both of you.”

“I- thank you?” Maeglin gets out.

Fingon’s smile is soft. “I was a little worried about Russo,” he says quietly. “The influence of the Oath and the Silmaril on him, how that might cloud his judgement. I nearly got on a horse and rode out when I heard that the Silmaril was gone from Doriath.” He tucks one of Maeglin’s braids back behind his ear. “I should have known that my worry was unfounded with you there.”

Maeglin can feel his cheeks burning. He ducks his head, studying the pattern on the bedspread. “I’m just glad it’s all worked out,” he says. “And that the Oath is fulfilled, and we’re all safely back home.”

Fingon hums. He presses another kiss to Maeglin’s brow. “Get some sleep. We’ll hold a council tomorrow afternoon, but you and I should talk beforehand to make sure we’re a strong united front. Come to my study after breakfast? Or I’ll come to yours.” He pauses, and then nods before Maeglin can say anything in response. “I’ll come to yours. Less chance of Ereinion interrupting us.”

Maeglin nods. “After breakfast, then. I’ll tell Tyelpë to entertain Ereinion, that might keep him off his feet and away from the forges.”

Fingon snorts. “We’ll see. He’s developed a habit of running away from anyone and everyone in the past few months. But that’s going to be Russo’s problem tomorrow.” He steps back from the bed. “Curvo. All good?”

Curufin looks over at the bed, where Celebrimbor is somehow still asleep through all of this. “It is now,” he replies. “How’s Nelyo?”

Fingon hums. “Feeling it,” he just says. “I’m going to make him take tomorrow to just rest and be with Ereinion.”

“As a rest, or as penance?” Curufin asks.

Fingon huffs a laugh. “I’ll take advantage of his lingering guilt and appeasing nature as long as I can,” he replies. “It won’t last. And he needs it.” His smile slips. “This has been hard on him. And of course, nobody is harder on him than himself.”

Curufin snorts. “Of course. But I’m sure he’ll be fine.” He nods at Fingon. “We’ll see you in the morning.”

“Night,” Fingon just says, and then he’s slipping back out of the door.

Curufin scowls as he gets to his feet and limps over to the side of the bed, checking on Celebrimbor and then reaching over to gently push Maeglin to lie back down. “That could have waited until tomorrow,” he mutters as he smooths the bedspread out over Maeglin. “Fingon knew you were fine.”

“He just wanted to see it himself,” Maeglin says through a yawn. He rolls over, pulling the blanket tight around his shoulders. “Are you-”

“I'll stay for a little while before going back to my own rooms,” Curufin says. A warm weight gently rests on Maeglin's head for a moment, his hand smoothing his braids back away from his face. “Go to sleep, Lómion.”

He's nearly drifted off again when Celebrimbor stirs beside him. “Atta?” Maeglin hears him sleepily murmur.

“I'm here, Tyelpë,” Curufin says softly. There's a rustle and then the bed dips slightly as he comes to sit on the side next to Celebrimbor. “Need anything?”

Celebrimbor hums a negative. “Heard voices.”

“It was just Fingon, come to check on you both,” Curufin explains. “Go back to sleep.”

Celebrimbor hums again. “Atta?”

“Yes?”

Celebrimbor is silent for a long moment. Maeglin listens intently.

“What was it like?”

Curufin is silent for a long moment. “What was what like?” he asks, and his voice is so gentle it almost makes Maeglin shudder.

“Atta. You know what I’m asking.” There’s a rustle as Celebrimbor moves, possibly rolling over judging by the dip in the mattress. “When the Oath was fulfilled. What was it like?”

Curufin breathes out slowly. “Afterwards, it was like- it was like I had been at the anvil, hammering a piece of iron for so, so long that I couldn’t even feel the calluses or the blisters anymore, and the ache in my arm and my back had just become normal, another part of me, and then…”

“And then the hammer was gone?”

“And then the iron was shaped, and whole, and I put the hammer down, ” Curufin says softly. “And I could still feel the lingering ache in my arm, and my back, and the sweat on my brow from the heat was still there, but it was…it was fading with every breath.”

Celebrimbor hums. “You said afterwards,” he says after a few moments. “What about during? What was it like then?”

“What was it like for you?” Curufin asks gently.

Celebrimbor hums again, long and low. “It was warm,” he says eventually. “Like standing in the shadow of a mountain and then stepping out, just one step, and feeling the sun on my cheeks. And I- I don’t know, maybe I just imagined it, but for a moment it felt like I…”

“Like you saw them being made?” Curufin finishes for him. “Like you were there, watching Fëanor raise his hammer and let it fall, but it was-”

“Like watching it from below,” Celebrimbor finishes quickly. “Like it was on the anvil, yes. And I- it’s like a dream, it’s all been slipping from my grasp ever since the light subsided, but in that first moment I felt like I- like I understood how. ” He is silent for a moment. “How he did it. How he made them.”

Curufin hums softly. “Then you understand more than I do,” he says, his voice achingly soft. “I missed that, if it was ever offered to me. But then you have always been a better smith than myself.”

“Atar, no,” Celebrimbor protests. “I am not. ”

“You are, and that’s alright,” Curufin says. Maeglin can hear the smile on his lips. “You’re more generous in your works than I am, more able to imbue intent into a piece of work and understand how to make the material speak back to you. And not that he will, but if Nelyo ever asked for us to attempt to recreate the Silmarils, I would tell him to give it to you and Lómion.”

Celebrimbor snorts. “Don’t give Nelyo any ideas, Atar. Or Lómion. You know he’d take it as a challenge.” There’s a rustle of bedcovers. “Is he asleep?”

A pause. “Yes, I think so.”

“Good.” Celebrimbor’s words are punctuated by a long yawn. “He needs the rest. And yes, I know I do too, but Lómion- I was going to kill him when I saw him again and realised he’d turned back for me, but he did the right thing. Unquestionably, seeing as we’re all here and all alright, and the Oath is fulfilled. But I’m pretty sure he agonised over it a lot, even if he didn’t tell me.”

Maeglin resists the urge to roll over and tell Celebrimbor that he’s wrong. Once he had made that decision, he hadn’t had any regrets. Even a Silmaril was worthless compared to the risk to Celebrimbor’s life, out there alone on the plains.

Of course, he hadn’t been alone, Beren and Lúthien had found him, but Maeglin hadn’t known that, and hadn’t had that information with which to make his decision, so it doesn’t matter. He doesn’t regret it.

He thinks that if he had made it to Maedhros, and the Oath had been fulfilled as Maedhros learned Celebrimbor was out there, alone, maybe hurt, then…

It could have been a lot worse.

“Get some sleep then, Tyelpë,” Curufin is saying as Maeglin drifts back out of his own thoughts. “And make sure you try to sleep in tomorrow morning, alright? I’ll come wake Lómion up for breakfast, seeing as he needs to meet with Fingon tomorrow, but you can go back to sleep.”

Celebrimbor hums. “As long as there’s some food I’ll be fine.” He yawns again, and there’s a rustle and tug of the bedspread as Celebrimbor pulls it over him more securely. “Night, Atta.”

“Good night, Tyelpë. Love you.”

There’s a rustle, the quiet sound of footsteps, and then Maeglin feels a thumb brush across his brow. “Love you, Lómion,” he hears Curufin murmur, and then there is nothing as he drifts off to sleep.

Chapter Text

Fingon doesn’t bother with trying to be quiet heading back into their bedroom. By the steadily roiling copper and gold twisting over itself in the back of his mind, he knows that there’s no point.

Maedhros isn’t even in bed, though it’s getting late now. They had arrived back to Barad Eithel in the late afternoon, but it’s late at night now, between the welcome as Maedhros rode through the city and all the hassle of sorting out the immediate concerns, making sure people have places to sleep and there is enough food for everyone, that rooms in the citadel are aired out for all of Fingon’s brothers-in-law who still seem to mostly be reeling with shock, even days after Fingon felt white light surge and close the endless leagues between him and Maedhros in a single moment.

Instead, Fingon pushes open the door to see Maedhros sat by the fire, his tall frame improbably curled up in one of the two armchairs. He stirs as Fingon comes in, twisting to look over his shoulder. “Where did you go?” he asks.

“I wanted to check on Lómion and Tyelpë,” Fingon replies, shedding his outer tunic and putting it on one of the hangers for Idhron to deal with in the morning. “Curufin took them both off to Haerel almost as soon as you arrived back, and I didn’t get a chance earlier between everything.”

Maedhros hums. “The healers assured me that Tyelpë was fine, but I can understand Curvo wanting Haerel to make sure.” He sighs, twisting back around to look at the fire. “That Tyelpë got hurt at all is-”

“Not your fault,” Fingon interrupts over his shoulder as he toes his boots off and puts them away. “Stop this, Russo. Tyelpë and Lómion meeting the Dwarves on the plains was unlucky timing, and nothing more. You know this.”

“Still,” Maedhros says. “You and I both know that it came far too close. That I let it- it’s not even that, that I pushed it that close in my blind desperation to fulfil the- that fucking oath.” He breathes out heavily, running a hand over his face. “I know it worked out, I do, because I can literally feel it in my chest, but still I…”

Fingon sighs, slipping his sleep shirt over his head and wincing when it gets caught on his ear. “Russo, it’s been a long day, and I’m not going to participate in your self-flagellation, so you can stop poking the bruise and come to bed.”

It comes out slightly sharper than intended. He feels copper and gold spike into shards for a moment, and then Maedhros is frowning at him. “You’re angry.”

Fingon does his very best not to roll his eyes as he pulls the covers back. “I’m tired, Russo. It’s been a stressful time recently, if you hadn’t noticed, and now it’s over, and you’re home, and I would quite like to get into bed with my husband and go to sleep.”

Maedhros’s frown just deepens. “It’s not over, ” he says. “I mean- yes, the oath is fulfilled, and that is thankfully done , but the political implications- we came so close to war, Finno-”

“I know,” Fingon says over the top of him, “and I also know it really wasn’t as close as you think it might have been right now.”

That gets Maedhros to his feet. “You weren’t there, Finno,” he says sternly. “I know I showed you what I saw in the aftermath, but you weren’t- there were two armies facing off from each other on those plains, there were swords drawn, don’t tell me that wasn’t close! You weren’t there!”

“I know!” Fingon shouts, the words suddenly exploding out of him. “I know I wasn’t there, because I was fucking here! I was here, Russo, on my own, fucking leagues away and unable to do anything at all other than watch and listen!”

“Finno, beloved-”

“I have stayed so calm , and so quiet ,” Fingon hears himself yell, “and I watched from afar and loved from afar and I was fucking terrified, Russo, do you know how scared I was watching all of this unfold from leagues away, feeling all of what you were feeling? Do you think I wasn’t also so scared by all of this? But I love you, and I knew you would choose to do the right thing, and you did , so can we please, please , just fucking leave it and go to bed!”

Maedhros is reaching out for him now. “I’m sorry, beloved, I didn’t- another thing I didn’t think about-”

“Oh, for the love of-” Fingon throws his hands up in the air. “I didn’t say any of that to add to your self-flagellation, and if that’s all you’re going to do with any of this, then I will just stop speaking now and go to sleep before I can add to any of it.”

Maedhros is quiet. “I know you’ve been told this already, Russo,” Fingon says, willing his voice to steady, “but you are not the only damn player in this game. Thingol wasn’t a piece for you to move at your will around the board, he was the King of Doriath and he made his own damn decisions that ended up killing him, and it was not because of you! He was foolish, and selfish, and didn’t listen to reason when many, many people tried to steer him onto the better path, including yourself! That he’s dead is his own fault. That Dior is King at a young age is also Thingol’s fault. That Tyelpë got hurt was fucking unlucky, and honestly I am grateful that he and Lómion were there and that they were kind to Dior, that Dior is a kind young man who was raised well by his parents, and that they understood how the people around them had all messed up and decided to make it better!”

“Finno-”

“The more you keep flaying yourself open over the death of someone who quite frankly put himself there by his own actions,” Fingon snaps, “the more I am going to get angry! I don’t give a fuck if you think the world is yours alone to shoulder and that only you can play this game and bear this burden. I don’t care. I am your husband , and I love you , and I- you didn’t let me help you, Russo, not like I wanted to.” His eyes are suddenly stinging, and Fingon swallows around something suddenly in his throat.

“And I do get that,” he gets out, his voice quietening. “I do. I’ve felt the oath through you, I’ve seen what it can do, and I understand that I can never truly know what it was like. The burning in your chest, the weight that you and your brothers carried. I know you wanted to protect me, and Ereinion, from it, but I am your husband . I had already seen what the oath could drive people to, I was there .” He makes himself take a shuddering breath. “I just wanted to help you. I just wanted to be there.”

Maedhros makes a low noise in the back of his throat. “Beloved. Oh, Finno- no, don’t cry, please don’t cry.”

Fingon hasn’t even realised there are tears rolling down his cheeks. “Fuck,” he breathes out, scrubbing his hands over his cheeks. “Sorry, I- I’m so tired, and I’m so fucking relieved and somehow still mad at you when it’s not even really your fault and I don’t want to be angry, I just…”

Maedhros’ arms are around him before he can shudder out another word. “Dearheart,” Fingon breathes, and then he’s sobbing into his shoulder and he doesn’t even really know why.

“I’m-”

“Don’t you dare apologise,” Fingon gets out into his shoulder. “Or I’ll be even more mad at you.”

Maedhros’ arms tighten around him. “Oh, it’s a cumulative thing, then?” he asks, and Fingon can hear the hint of a smile in his voice as he nods in return. He sighs softly, rubbing a hand up and down Fingon’s back. “Do you understand why I felt like I had to protect you, and Ereinion? If the Oath had come to harm you, I- I don’t think I would have been able to take it.”

His voice cracks on the last words. Fingon pulls back. “I honestly don’t think it could have,” he says. “No, don’t argue with me on this Russo, I’ve held the Silmarils, so has Maeglin, and neither of us have seemed to trigger whatever trip wire the Oath was sitting on with that.”

Maedhros screws up his face. “I don’t know if it’s the same.”

“They’ve always answered to me when I’ve asked,” Fingon says softly. He links his fingers together behind Maedhros’ back, holding him tight even as he pulls back to study his face. “Right from the beginning, when I pulled them from his crown.”

Maedhros is silent for a long moment. “Huh,” he says eventually.

Fingon shakes him slightly. “Huh?”

“It was- something Melian said, when I asked her how she pulled Thingol out of the Silmaril’s grasp,” Maedhros says, his gaze thoughtful. “She said that she used the shard of his crown that we had gifted them, that it was- it was the echoes of your sacrifice, the blood from where you cut your palms open pulling the Silmarils free- that did it.”

“Huh,” Fingon says. “I- huh.”

He remembers the sharp pains in his hands as the jagged metal cut into them, the frantic scramble for the crown and the Silmarils, hope beyond hope that he would get there first, that he would be able to free them, to use them. That somehow, it would let Fingon save him.

“I don’t know enough about these workings to understand it,” Fingon says eventually, “but I’m…I’m glad. And surprised.”

Maedhros hums. “I’m not,” he says. “I- I was thinking about it on the ride back. Melian made me think of it first, actually. She said that it was perhaps because you didn’t want the Silmarils in his crown for their own sake, but instead to win the battle, to turn Morgoth, save everyone.” He sighs. “I don’t know, that’s about where the thought ends, but it’s…it’s something. How the Silmaril made it here, and all the decisions that led to it.” He goes quiet, staring off at something Fingon can’t see. “How many people had it, and gave it away because it was better served not being in their hands.” He shakes his head. “I don’t know.”

“Well, by that logic, you made the right decisions in the end,” Fingon can’t help but point out. “You didn’t want the Silmaril for itself. You wanted it to keep me and Ereinion safe, to keep everyone safe, even if it was from yourself.” He squeezes Maedhros for a moment, holding him tight. “Or you made the right decisions along the way, and other people finished off the job for you. You’re the one who reached out to Melian, after all, with your first letter. You encouraged Beleg and Túrin to go and visit Beren and Lúthien. You have- not on your own, but you have helped- raised Maeglin and Tyelpë up into fine people, who were able to know the right thing to do in the situation, even when everything was so uncertain and terrifying.” He has to go up on his tiptoes to press a kiss to Maedhros’ lips. “Like your brother said- and I cannot believe I’m having to agree with Curufin on this- stop thinking about the war we almost reached, and start thinking about the one you stopped before it even started.”

Maedhros is silent. Fingon kisses him again, and then pulls back. “Come to bed. You’re exhausted, and we need to get some sleep at least before Ereinion crawls into the bed tonight.”

Maedhros snorts. “So certain he will?” he asks.

Fingon shrugs, already sliding under the covers. “He’s missed you,” he says. “We both have.” He holds out one hand. “Come to bed, dearheart.”

Maedhros gets in, tugging the bed covers over them and dimming the oil lamp on the bedside table. He rolls over, looking over at Fingon in the dim light of the lamp. “You’re still a little mad at me, aren’t you?”

Fingon hums. “You’re the one getting up early with Gil,” he says, rolling over to fall against Maedhros’ chest. Maedhros’ hand comes to rest on his back. “He’s getting up very early right now, and it is a nightmare to get him to wear shoes. You’re welcome.”

Lips press against his head. “Thank you, beloved,” Maedhros murmurs, and then his steady heartbeat beneath Fingon’s ear lulls him slowly to sleep.

0-o-0-o-0

Maglor slumps onto the sofa, careful not to spill a drop of his wine, and wishes for a moment he could somehow merge with the cushions and cease existing until he feels less exhausted. “Curvo?” he asks.

“Making sure Tyelpë and Lómion are alright,” Celegorm replies, slumping down onto the rug in front of the hearth to lean against Ryn. He makes a gesture at Maglor. “Pass the bottle, Káno.”

It’s Caranthir who gets to his feet with an aggrieved sigh, picking up the open bottle amongst the small number gathered on the side table. “At least drink it from a cup,” he says as he passes it over to Celegorm.

Celegorm immediately takes a gulp straight from the bottle. Caranthir scowls at him, but says nothing as he takes back his seat on the window ledge, curling his legs up underneath him. “You’re disgusting,” Amras says from the armchair next to the hearth. “Is Nelyo going to join us?”

“I doubt it,” Maglor says. “He and Fingon are probably talking.”

“Sure,” Celegorm says. “ Talking.” He waggles his eyebrows, and then squawks as Amras kicks at him. “You all know I’m right!”

“Doesn’t mean I want to think about it, you idiot!” Amras replies. He kicks out at him again. “Give me that wine, you’re not keeping that all for yourself.”

“Try and take it from me,” Celegorm says with a sharp grin, and then it devolves into chaos as Amras launches himself off his armchair and at Celegorm.

Maglor sighs, and shifts his legs out of the way as Celegorm and Amras tussle on the floor. “How expensive do you reckon that rug is, and how bad will it be if the wine spills?” he asks Caranthir.

Caranthir eyes it for a moment. “Very,” he says eventually. “It’s Dwarven, and shot with gold threads. But with everything that has happened in the past few days, I think this might be the one time we could get away with it.”

Maglor hums in agreement, and drinks deeply from his wine. “Fingon said there’ll be a council meeting tomorrow afternoon, but I don’t know who he wants there.”

“Not me,” Celegorm says from where he’s pinned underneath Amras. “I don’t do council meetings, everyone knows- Telvo, get your knee off my groin before I bite you.”

Caranthir sighs as they devolve back into squabbling. “It depends what mood his side of the camp are in,” he says. He tips his wine glass back and forth, watching the deep red liquid run down the sides of the glass. “Whether they’re annoyed that we kept this within our own House, or relieved. And whether Fingon is cross with Nelyo.”

Maglor snorts. “If he is, I think they’ll have argued it out by tomorrow, or at the least will present a united front.” He shakes his head. “He asked me to try and restrain Nelyo, when we were here last, and I tried to explain to him the weight of it all, what it felt like to wonder whether the oath was driving all of your decisions or none, and how scared Nelyo was- is, probably, still- of it reaching him and Ereinion.” He has another gulp of wine. “I think he listened. I hope he did.”

Caranthir frowns. “I suppose we will see tomorrow. Lómion will be a steady hand, if tempers do become raised. And he is to thank for all of this- well, him and Tyelpë, but I don’t imagine Curvo will be letting him out of his sight any time soon- so Lómion should have a good level of influence in whatever is to come.” His frown smooths out somewhat. “I’m glad for him.”

Maglor hums. “I know. I was so worried when I saw them there, with Beren and Lúthien, but they- they both put us to shame a little, didn’t they?” He drains his wine glass, tipping his head back to catch the last dregs, and then reaches for a new bottle. “I don’t know about you, but I was- I was more ready than I like to think to use force to get them back, to get the Silmaril back. I think I could have killed them, and I- I don’t know what to do with that.”

The wine has obviously loosened his tongue. Celegorm and Amras still on the rug, Celegorm slowly pushing Amras off him as he sits up. “So?” he asks.

“So?” Maglor echoes. “That would have been- we would have had war .”

Celegorm thinks for a moment, head tipped over to one side. “I don’t know what else they expected, holding our nephews hostage. They must have known we would use force to get them back if we had no other options. It would have been justified.”

“Even if Doriath declared war on us for it?” Caranthir asks. “And don’t say that it doesn’t matter because we would have beaten them, you know that’s not the whole truth of it.” He sets his wine glass down. “Yes, we had the advantage, numerically and strategically and in most of the other ways. But it would have torn us apart internally, and you know that.”

Celegorm makes a face. “They’re our nephews,” he says. “What else did they think we would do?”

“I don’t think they were thinking,” Amras says quietly, sitting up and letting Ryn crawl halfway into his lap. “They were scared. Just like us. We all know the terrible decisions you can make when you’re that terrified.”

Maglor nods. For a moment, he can hear the words rising up above the fear and desperation and darkness, swords raised together into the pitch black sky.

The words carry a different weight to what they used to.

“We can go back and forth on it all day long,” Caranthir says, staring down at the wine in his glass. “The fact of the matter is that Lómion and Tyelpë were there, and they brought the third Silmaril back to us to fulfil the oath. Dior as well,” he adds as an afterthought. “Nobody was badly hurt, nobody declared war, and we are in a much better place now than we were.”

“Apart from Thingol, but I don’t think any of us care about that,” Celegorm points out. He raises his wine bottle in a toast. “Good riddance, if you ask me.”

“Well, nobody normally does, thank the Valar for that,” Caranthir says. “Doriath is going to be unstable now, no matter that Melian was essentially running everything anyway. Their King is dead. We all remember what that is like.”

The room falls to silence. Maglor stares down at his wine for long minutes, watching the small ripples across the surface of the deep red liquid, his hand not able to hold the glass perfectly still. “It’s different,” he hears himself say. “He’s been dead for so long, but this- now…”

It’s like he is truly gone, this time. Not just burned away to ash on the wind, just to be perpetually burning behind endless grey walls that none of them would ever be able to reach beyond, but quiet . Maybe it’s just the sudden lack of burning in his own chest making him feel like this, maybe it’s the nearly paralysing relief that hits him in waves when he once again realises that it is done , that the oath they swore can’t hurt them anymore, but it feels so quiet in a part of him he didn’t even realise was waiting there.

“It feels like we’re really on our own now,” Maglor just ends up saying, all the words to describe what he doesn’t understand falling flat and toneless on his tongue and being swallowed down instead. “I don’t- what do we do with that?”

Celegorm lets his head fall back onto Ryn’s flank with a huff. “I don’t think that much has actually changed , though,” he says, staring up at the ceiling and not even noticing when Amras takes the wine bottle out of his hand. “I’ll go back out on the Hunt soon, I suppose. The threat that Morgoth poses hasn’t changed.” He waves his hands at the room around them, at the city spread out further and further than they would have ever imagined possible. “None of this has changed. Nelyo is still King.”

Caranthir hums, staring out of the window he’s curled up beside. “I do get what you mean, Káno,” he says softly. “When Tyelpë pulled the Silmaril free, when there was- when it was just light, I…” He shakes his head. “I’m not sure what I felt, or saw, or whether half of it was purely wishful thinking, but I could have sworn I heard, or felt-” He ducks his head. “I don’t know. Maybe it was just wishful thinking.”

Amras sits up abruptly, his jaw clenched. “I thought I heard Pityo,” he says, his words all spilling out together in a rush. “For a second. For a moment , I thought I heard him beside me.”

There is silence, and then the sound of a hitched, muffled sob breaks it. Maglor nearly spills his wine in his haste to scramble out of his chair and join Amras in front of the hearth. By the time he gets there, his knees aching from falling unceremoniously down to the ground, Celegorm has already turned and bundled Amras up in his arms as he starts sobbing.

“I know, I know,” Celegorm is saying in Amras’ ear as he rocks him gently back and forth. “You don’t get to stop caring just because it hurts. I know, I know, it’s awful isn’t it? Hush, come on now. He’s proud of you, I know he is. Come on now.”

Caranthir is there as well, gripping Amras’ shoulder tight. Maglor wraps an arm around as many of his brothers as he can, ducking his head and watching the rug beneath his knees darken with spots of tears as he holds onto them as best he can.

Chapter Text

Maeglin resists the urge to rub at his temples. It’s far too obvious a giveaway that he’s frustrated, and somehow most of this council has been looking to him for the calming voice as they have gone endlessly on from the afternoon into the evening. “I think we have to wait to see how Dior approaches us,” he says, taking care to keep his voice level and calm. “If we come on too strong, too fast- everything is too delicate for it. Let him settle first. Let him decide what type of ruler he wants to be. We’ll meet him when he reaches out.”

“And if he decides to emulate his grandfather?” one of Fingon’s council members asks. “Blames us for Thingol’s death, declares us enemies?”

“He won’t,” Maeglin says, staring the council member down. “Not just because it would be evidently foolish, even to someone inexperienced as him. He’s advised by Melian, and Beleg and Mablung, and they are neither fools or enemies of ours. They will advise him to approach us cautiously, perhaps, but approach us nonetheless.”

He waits for the rebuttal, but there is none. Maedhros nods at Fingon, and Fingon steeples his hands in front of his face in the way that means he’s made a decision. “I concur,” he says. “A lot of things have happened very quickly. We now need to let things, and people, settle before we can fully know the best avenue to proceed.” He nods to Maeglin. “And Lómion is right. Melian is experienced in ruling Doriath, and we have an existing relationship with her that has been no mean feat to both begin and then maintain, and which has had tangible results both recently and over the years. We will wait for them to reach out to us.”

There are murmurs of agreement around the table. “The next item we need to discuss is the loss of the Dwarven artisans,” a council member says, shuffling a few pieces of paper and pulling one to the top. “From my understanding, a number died within Menegroth and a score more on the plains.”

“A matter to be settled between Doriath and the Dwarven cities,” another says. “We had no hand in their deaths at Thingol’s hand.” She looks to Maeglin. “Unless?”

“No,” Maeglin says firmly. “The deaths on Estolad happened either at Dwarven hands, or the arrows of the Laegrim when they arrived after Dior. Tyelpë and I actively sought to not kill, and they did attack us first.”

“Did any survive?” Fingon asks. “Do we know?”

“No word from the forces positioned on the river crossings to Nogrod and Belegost,” Maedhros replies. “And no sign of captives held by the Doriathrim in the days we remained in or around Estolad. My guess would be that they either crossed somewhere we weren’t looking, or are hiding somewhere within those plains.” He pulls a piece of parchment towards him and scratches something down. “I will write to Azaghal.”

There’s something in Maedhros’ voice that makes Maeglin pause, but at a subtle glance from Fingon he doesn’t pursue. This council meeting has gone on too long already.

Finally, they finish for dinner. Maeglin tidies up his own notes, abandoning the copious parchment pieces strewn across the table to someone who cares more than he does about their meticulous archival system. It’s useful, of course, but he’s hungry, and it’s someone else’s job to maintain.

Celebrimbor collars him as he’s heading for the family room, quite literally. One minute Maeglin is walking along a few paces behind Fingon and Maedhros, flicking through his notebook to see if there’s anything he needs to work on before another meeting tomorrow, and the next minute he’s staggering from the weight of another person slamming into him and slinging an arm around his shoulders. “Stop it, you’re heavy,” Maeglin says, not looking up from his notes as he rebalances to take Celebrimbor’s weight. “Please don’t tell me you climbed those stairs on your own.”

“I was very good and let Atar help me, so we both looked like fools,” Celebrimbor says cheerfully. “How was council? You don’t look like you’re going to try and immediately hurt someone, but then again it could all just be bubbling beneath the surface and you might snap without any notice.”

Maeglin arches a brow. “Council was fine, thank you,” he says. “No major decisions made. We have to wait for the dust to settle on a lot of things, and see how Dior reacts.”

Celebrimbor hums. “I’ll write to him,” he says. “You can add something to the letter, if you like.”

“I will thoroughly read the letter before you send it, to make sure you are not messing with any intricate politics,” Maeglin counters. He shifts his weight slightly to better help Celebrimbor limp along the hallway. “But yes, I will add a postscript. Tomorrow.”

Celebrimbor shrugs. “No rush.”

The rest of his uncles are waiting for dinner already. Celegorm and Amras are talking on one of the couches, Ryn curled up next to Celegorm’s legs. Maglor is leant up against the hearth with a glass of wine, watching Ereinion play with Caranthir on the rug in front of the hearth as they walk in. Ereinion immediately abandons the wooden blocks in favour of running straight to wrap his arms around Maedhros’ legs. “So nice of you, Gil,” Maedhros says with a smile, smoothing a hand over his head. “What about Atto? And your cousins?”

Fingon gets slammed into as well, having to grab Maedhros’ shoulder to stay upright as his knees buckle, and then Ereinion is running headfirst towards the two of them. Maeglin intercepts him first, letting what is a surprisingly heavy and solid child run straight into his legs and dig tiny fingers into his trousers. “Hello to you too, Gil,” he says, crouching down and gently grasping his arms before Ereinion can do the same to Celebrimbor. “Are we listening?”

Ereinion nods. “Cousin Tyelpë is a bit tired today, so we have to be careful when saying hello to him,” Maeglin says to Ereinion as he squirms in his gentle grip. “Alright, Gil?”

Ereinion nods, his face serious, and when Maeglin lets him go he very carefully walks over to Celebrimbor and pats him on the leg, not unlike how he pets Ryn when she’s sleeping and he doesn’t want to wake her up. Celebrimbor looks like he’s only a few seconds away from bursting into laughter. “Thank you, Gil,” he says, reaching down to ruffle the tiny braids of his hair. “That was so gentle of you. Have you had a good day?”

“Uncle Moryo helped me build a city,” Ereinion says. When Maeglin looks over, there is indeed a miniature city that sprawls out across the rug in front of the hearth, even encroaching on Amras’ feet by the couch. He reaches up and tugs at Maeglin’s hand. “Come and look? The roads are a con- concert-”

“Concentric ring system,” Caranthir says, getting to his feet and offering out glasses of wine from the bottle waiting on the table.”We were about to construct the northern quarter, but I suppose it can wait until after supper.”

Curufin is sat down already, cane hooked over the arm of his chair, and Maeglin slides into a seat next to him. “I hope Tyelpë hasn’t been too difficult today,” he says as Fingon and Maedhros take their seats, Ereinion between them, and the others filling the gaps around the table. Idhron and a number of other servers begin to bring out dishes. “I would have tried to keep him entertained, but council was…long”

Curufin huffs a laugh, and starts piling first Maeglin and then Celebrimbor’s plate with slices of roasted pork. “I gave him some mail to fiddle with and it kept him entertained.”

Celebrimbor, on Curufin’s other side, makes an indignant noise. “I thought someone needed that done by tomorrow!” he says. “Did you just give me those links to keep me off my leg?”

Curufin’s lips twitch in a smile. “It worked, didn’t it?” he says. He points at Celebrimbor’s plate “Put more greens than that on your plate, Tyelpë. You need to keep your blood up.”

Celebrimbor leans back to roll his eyes at Maeglin. “I saw that,” Curufin chides, not looking up from his own plate. “I will tell Haerel if you’re not being careful.”

“I’ll be fine, I’ll be fine ,” Celebrimbor insists, but he does take another few spoonfuls of greens.

Dinner isn’t the liveliest that Maeglin has ever seen with this family, but between Celebrimbor feeling antsy at having to stay off his leg and the chaos that comes with a three year old child, even one as sweet and kind as Ereinion, and Celegorm, it’s still fairly loud. Maeglin is content to eat mostly in silence and let the conversation wash over him.

“-and of course, when I saw Lómion approaching and the Laegrim cut him off, I could have killed him- of all the stupid things he has ever done, turning back with the Silmaril might just be-”

“I’m sorry, he did what?”

The table goes suddenly silent as Maedhros speaks. “Tyelpë,” he says, his voice strained. “He did what?”

Celebrimbor frowns, glancing over at Maeglin. “I don’t- what are you referring to, Uncle?”

Maedhros sets his knife down very carefully. “You said he turned back with the Silmaril. What did you mean by that?”

Maeglin is frowning now. “When I left Tyelpë behind and rode north with the Silmaril that he had thrown me from the Dwarves, and then I turned back about- what, less than a day?” He glances over at Celebrimbor. “It was definitely still dark when I decided to go back for you.”

Celebrimbor shrugs. “Maybe. I don’t remember exactly, there was a lot going on.” He looks over to Maedhros. “Surely this isn’t- this isn’t news to you, what happened?”

Maedhros is staring at them. As Maeglin looks around, he realises that the rest of them are as well. Curufin is the only one who doesn’t look surprised. “You told me the details on the ride back,” he says to Maeglin, his voice softening slightly. “I don’t know if you ever told everyone else.”

Celegorm makes a strangled noise, echoed by Maglor. “I just assumed that Beren and Lúthien got you together, and chased off the remaining Dwarves. You- you never said . You- you had the Silmaril, and got away, and then went back?”

A sudden unease bubbles in Maeglin’s stomach. “When the Dwarves thought we were going to attack them, and so attacked us first, Tyelpë was much further into the melee than I was. One of the Dwarves tossed him the bag that held the Silmaril and the Nauglamir, and Tyelpë- he threw it to me and told me to run.” He swallows heavily. “I did. I made it about a day north, maybe less, before deciding to turn back and go back for Tyelpë. I wasn’t- I wasn’t going to leave him on his own.”

Maedhros’ eyes are wide. “You had the Silmaril,” he says slowly, “and you turned back.”

“Dearheart-”

“I did,” Maeglin says abruptly, cutting through whatever Fingon was about to say to Maedhros. His heart thuds in his chest. “I did, and I’d do it again.”

“Lómion-”

“No, I would,” he says firmly. He looks around the table, at the rest of his uncles all watching him carefully. Curufin is the only one who doesn’t look surprised. Celebrimbor is quietly smiling to himself, rolling his knife back and forth across the table and glancing up to give Maeglin a quick wink.

“I would,” Maeglin says again, his heartbeat settling firm in his chest. He looks around the table again. “I know what the oath means to you, but I also know that it means- quite frankly, in that moment, it meant nothing to me. Not compared to leaving Tyelpë behind, in danger and alone. I couldn’t have cared less about the Silmaril and your oath in that moment, and if I went back and had the same choice in front of me then I would choose the same again. I don’t regret it.”

There is a resounding silence. Maedhros is staring at him from across the table, but Maeglin meets his gaze and doesn’t look away. He’s right. He knows that he was right. The choice between Celebrimbor and a Silmaril isn’t ever going to be a choice at all.

His heart is still pounding. Apparently it doesn’t quite agree with him.

Fingon reaches out and gently sets a hand on Maedhros’. Between them, Ereinion is staring owlishly at him, obviously picking up that something is wrong but not quite understanding what. “Dearheart.”

Maedhros breathes out, long and slow, and Maeglin tries not to flinch. “I don’t think anyone else around this table would have made this decision,” he says, his words slow and measured and so careful. “And I- Lómion, I cannot put into words how proud I am of you right now, and of every single decision you made throughout all of this.”

Maeglin can hear his heart stop for a moment. “I- you are?”

Maedhros’ face softens into a smile. “I am,” he says. “Of the both of you.”

“Who knows what might have happened if you had not turned back,” Fingon says. “You were on your own on those plains, which is a danger in and of itself, but…we have Dior’s friendship because of the two of you. We avoided a war because, in no small part, because of you.” He smiles fondly at Maeglin. “And we have the Silmarils, all three of them, and the oath is gone. It’s done. Maybe even because you turned around, and not in spite of it.”

“I- are you sure?” Maeglin asks. He hates how his voice is suddenly small.

Celebrimbor kicks at his ankle under the table. “I am,” he says. “Who else would have put Beren and Lúthien in their place like you did? You made them stop and think. You made Dior think, which in my opinion changed everything.”

“You’re the one who looked at Dior and decided to be kind,” Maeglin says, resisting the urge to try and kick back at him. “I think that did more than anything else.”

“Yes, yes, we can apportion the credit later,” Celebrimbor says with a wave of his hand. He looks over to Maedhros, and then around the rest of the table. “Are we done? Anyone else who would like to question the choices we made in all of this?”

“Tyelpë-” Maglor says.

Celebrimbor shakes his head. “No. You weren’t there. It was just the two of us, and even though I was angry at Lómion when I saw he had turned back, I don’t wish he hadn’t, because he put me above the Silmarils, he put someone he loves above them, and that’s more than my grandfather ever did.”

There is a stunned silence around the table. “Don’t tell me I’m wrong, I was there,” Celebrimbor says, his voice heated. “When the oath was sworn and at Alqualondë and at Losgar, I was there . I knew how enormous this all was. I knew what it meant when I realised exactly who those Dwarves were and what they were carrying, and when they threw the Silmaril to me and I threw it to Lómion. I knew what that meant. And I was still- I was angry, but I was so fucking relieved to see him come back.” He seems to realise that Ereinion is still there and abruptly snaps his jaw shut. “Sorry.”

“Don’t apologise, Tyelpë,” Curufin says firmly. “You’re right. I told you before, Maedhros, the mistake that I made. Our father made the same one, I think. But you didn’t, because Tyelpë and Lómion didn’t.” He reaches out and gently grasps Celebrimbor’s shoulder. “Let’s leave it at that.”

Maedhros holds his hand up. “I wasn’t objecting,” he says, his voice soft. “Tyelpë, I think you are probably right. Our father loved us, but he-” He sighs. “He got so much of it so wrong. This time, I think we got it mostly right, but that’s because of the both of you.” He looks over to Maeglin. “That’s because you turned back.” His lips twitch in a wry smile. “It’s certainly not because of anything I did.”

“That’s not true.”

All eyes are on Maeglin again. “Come again?” Celegorm asks.

“The letters to Melian. Beleg and Túrin visiting Beren and Lúthien. The clearing of Nan Dungortheb, the building of alliances. All of that mattered. All of that stopped this from becoming so much worse.” Maeglin shrugs. “Do I think you all should have involved Fingon and myself in this earlier? Yes, of course. But I don’t disagree with the broad strokes of everything that happened.”

“Even though it put you and Tyelpë in danger,” Maedhros replies.

“That’s not your fault.”

“Isn’t it?” Maedhros just asks.

Maeglin shakes his head. “Not at all,” he replies. “Everyone involved in this made their own decisions, Tyelpe and myself included. You just told me I made the right decision in turning back. Don’t be a hypocrite, Maedhros. I made that decision, and I own it, as does everyone else who decided on their own actions. You didn’t make me turn around. I did that all myself, and I did the right thing.”

Maedhros is silent for a long moment, and then his lips curl up into a smile. “When did you get so wise?” he asks, eyes bright as he looks up at Maeglin from across the table.

“Watching you and Fingon,” Maeglin replies easily.

That makes Maedhros laugh in surprise. “Clever lad,” he says fondly. “I’m proud of the both of you, alright? Now eat. Everyone’s food is getting cold.”

That seems to be enough of a sign for everyone to move on, and conversation, with a little effort, turns to lighter things. Celebrimbor kicks at his ankle under the table again, and Maeglin doesn’t bother hiding his pleased smile as he turns back to his plate.

Chapter Text

At first, Maedhros doesn’t know what woke him. He rolls over, gently freeing himself from underneath Fingon’s arm and the somewhat tangled blanket, and sits up to see Ereinion hovering in the doorway.

“What’s wrong, sweetheart?” Maedhros asks, keeping his voice low as Fingon stirs slightly beside him. “Come here. Did you have a bad dream?”

Ereinion clutches his soft cloth horse to his chest and comes up to the edge of the bed. “Woke up and was all alone,” he whispers to Maedhros. “I thought you were-” His breath hitches. “I thought you were gone. ”

Maedhros’ heart promptly melts at the first sign of tears. “Oh, Gil, come here,” he says, grabbing Ereinion beneath the arms and hoisting him up onto his lap. “Dry those tears, we’re right here.”

Ereinion sniffles, wiping at his eyes with his hand. Maedhros rubs a hand over his belly, soft and sleep-warm. “Let’s not make a habit of it, but you can sleep with me and Atto for the rest of the night, how does that sound? You’ll definitely be sure that we are here when all you hear is Atto snoring.”

Ereinion giggles, and there’s a rustle as Fingon stirs. “Heard that,” he mumbles, pressing his face into his pillow. He reaches out blindly. “Come here, Gil. Come under the blanket and get warm again.”

Ereinion lets himself be bundled up between the two of them easily enough, and Maedhros lies back down, rolling over to put an arm over Ereinion and Fingon. Ereinion is already falling back to sleep, his soft little breaths ghosting against Maedhros’ skin, and it isn’t long before he’s slipping back to sleep as well.

Predictably, Ereinion is awake before either of them. Fingon is due in court within the next few hours, so Maedhros lets him sleep in and gets up with Ereinion to get him ready for the day, including the seemingly endless fight about shoes that Ereinion is going through at the moment.

Maglor is already eating in the family room when Maedhros walks in, Ereinion pulling free from his hand to immediately return to the blocks that never got cleared up last night. “Good morning,” Maglor says around a mouthful of toast. “You’re up early.”

Maedhros nods at Ereinion in explanation. “Gil, where are your manners?” he says. “Say good morning to Uncle Káno before you start playing, please.”

Ereinion’s eyes go wide. “Good morning!” he says, rushing over to Maglor and attempting to climb up the chair leg into his lap. “Up, please?”

Maglor laughs, pulling Ereinion up into his lap and tickling his sides. “Good morning to you too,” he replies, gently guiding one of Ereinion’s hands away from his mug of tea. “Careful, that’s a mug of tea, and it’s very hot. It will hurt if you spill it and touch the water.”

Ereinion nods, obviously thinking hard for a moment. “Atta, may I have some tea please?”

Maedhros can’t help but smile. “I don’t think you will like the taste, Gil, but you can try some. Give me a minute to make some for you, alright?”

He is careful to only lightly brew the tea, pouring some off and adding cold water to cool it down, and then offers the smallest mug he could find to Ereinion. “Careful,” Maedhros warns again, helping to steady the mug as Ereinion brings it to his lips.

Predictably, Ereinion takes one sip and then screws up his face. “Atta, no .”

Maedhros laughs, taking the mug away. “Alright Gil, you don’t have to like it. How about some milk?”

Ereinion pouts. “I want tea.”

“Sweetheart, you don’t like the tea,” Maedhros says, and immediately realises he’s said the wrong thing when Ereinion’s bottom lip starts to wobble. “Alright, let me add some honey and milk and make your tea taste nice, how about that?”

Ereinion is placated by a mug of what is mostly warm milk and honey, with a dash of tea, and then snacks at the plate of cut up sausages and scrambled eggs from Maglor’s lap as Maedhros fixes himself his own breakfast. Maedhros has barely started eating before Ereinion is begging to get back down and play with the blocks.

“He’s energetic this morning,” Maglor remarks as Ereinion starts building again by the now-empty hearth. “And woke you up early, by the looks of it.”

“He climbed into bed with me and Fingon last night,” Maedhros replies. “I think now he’s starting to realise how long I go away for, now he’s a little older, he’ll cling when I get back.” He sips at his tea. “And he must have picked up on the mood at the table last night, I think.”

Maglor hums. “Yes, I suppose so.” He wraps his hand around his mug. “Lómion was right, though.”

“I know he was,” Maedhros says easily. “And he never would have stood up to me like that a few years ago. He’s come so far from the scared young boy who first came back with us from the Galad Lain and could barely look at me without flinching.” He spears a piece of sausage. “I knew we made the right choice in making him Crown Prince, but the past few weeks…he’s come so far.”

He looks over at Ereinion, watching him stack up blocks to make the beginnings of what looks like a tower. He’s grown so much already from when he was a babe, staring up at the night sky in Maedhros’ arms. He can’t wait to see what’s next for him.

0-o-0-o-0

Maglor watches Ereinion play on the rug, tiny lips pursed in concentration. At the table, Maedhros is idly finishing his plate whilst beginning to read through the first letters in the stack that Idhron has brought him, one eye still occasionally flicking over to check on Ereinion.

His brother looks content. There’s something there that was missing before, some steadiness in the set of his shoulders or the way he leans back in his chair, flicking through the parchment in front of him. It’s been so long since Maglor has seen it in him that he’d almost forgotten what it could look like.

The oath has burned at them for so long he thinks he forgot what it was like to be only warm.

“What are you going to do now?” he finds himself asking, his hands still wrapped around the mug of tea that has already started growing cold.

Maedhros hums. “Morgoth is still a threat, even if Tyelko and his hunters are keeping him handily at bay for now. There are still pockets of darkness that could hurt us, that we should take care of. We’ll need to work with Dior now, to work out where we stand with Doriath.”

Maglor shakes his head. “Forget the crown. What are you going to do now?”

Maedhros breathes out, and turns to Maglor with a soft smile. “I’m going to watch my son grow up,” he says. “I- I’m going to get to do that. I’m going to get to be a better father to him than our father was to us.”

Maglor has to swallow around the sudden lump in his throat. “Good,” he gets out. “He’s- he’s going to be so special. He’s going to be so loved.”

Maedhros’ smile turns fond. “I know,” he says, reaching out and gently grasping Maglor’s wrist. “What about you?”

Maglor hums. “I don’t know yet,” he says. He musters up a smile for Maedhros. “I’ll figure it out, Nelyo, don’t you worry. Whatever you need me to do, I suppose.”

“I need you to choose something for yourself,” Maedhros replies. “You’ve spent a long time following me, don’t think I haven’t noticed. Pick something for yourself this time.”

Maglor breathes out. He doesn’t think he knows where to start. “I’ll try,” he just says.

Chapter Text

She knows that it hasn’t been that long since they rode out through the gates of Himring, but Saelwen still finds herself breathing a sigh of relief as her horse carries her up the final switchback and then under the stone arch, the gates still pitted and scarred flung wide to welcome the King of the Noldor back to his fortress.

It looks just the same as when she left, tightly packed buildings with stone roofs slowly pulling back to reveal the main courtyard, the keep itself large above their heads, grey stone resplendent with scarlet banners. What she was not expecting, though, were the people.

It feels like the entire population of Himring has crammed itself into the courtyard. They draw back silently as Maedhros rides in at the head of the column, Saelwen’s horse jogging slightly behind him as her breath catches at the sheer mass of people, the red adorning every house. Something glints in the sunlight and she turns to see fine threads of copper and gold woven in intricate spiralling patterns up the columns either side of the great doors into the keep, weaving over and over themselves as they climb higher and higher, spilling out across the lintel and then, above Maedhros’ head as he reins in his mare to a halt before the steps, three gleaming stars picked out in what must be all the gems in Himring.

Maedhros turns to look out across the crowd. Saelwen feels the rustle across the air first, the cold winds that sweep down from the Gap stilling and drawing breath for just a moment, and then, as one, the people of Himring sink to their knees and bow their heads.

What happened in Barad Eithel was a celebration. This-

Saelwen swallows heavily. This looks a lot like devotion.

She had known, of course, that it existed. She knows that some people would follow Maedhros anywhere without hesitation, that Gwedhron was ready to do his best to fight his way through the entirety of Doriath at a single word of command, and she knows that he was not the only one. She saw that devotion kindle and burn during the Dagor Bragollach, when the gates were shut with her Lord on the wrong side of them, on his own, but she had forgotten just what that meant.

She doesn’t quite know why it brings tears to her eyes. She’s never been Fëanorian in the way Gwedhron is, the way that those who knew Fëanor as a living, breathing person rather than just a spectre hovering over their friend’s shoulder at every turn. But still.

Maedhros turns to her, a tired smile on his face. “Just a little work to do still,” he says as he hands the reins of his mare off to a groom, as the courtyard comes to life once again and the people of Himring press in close. “If you’ll follow me for a little while longer?”

Saelwen dips her head. “As long as you have me back to my wife in time for supper, then I’ll be content.”

Maedhros’ study in Himring is possibly more familiar to her than her own house, at this point. She has long since lost track of the number of late evenings they have spent there together, studying maps spread out over the large central table, plates of half-eaten food gone cold at their elbows as they talked supplies and strategy and everything in between. Saelwen doffs the easiest pieces of her armour to take off on her own, setting them down in a corner, and then watches for a moment as Maedhros unsuccessfully tries to unbuckle his armour one-handed.

“Stop, please, it’s embarrassing to watch,” she says eventually. “Let me. Gambeson as well, or just the plate?”

“Just the plate is fine,” Maedhros replies. He has to duck for her to reach it, which never fails to make Saelwen huff a laugh. “I just wanted to go over the upcoming weeks before everyone disperses. Have a seat. Do you want food? I can call for some.”

Saelwen shakes her head, dropping into the seat across from Maedhros’ at the desk. “I’m sure Aegil has something planned, but thank you. I might drop by the kitchens and steal some cakes later, though.”

Maedhros huffs a laugh. “I’m sure they haven’t missed that. Now, rosters for the next few weeks. How few people can we get away with for protection and patrols?”

They’ve done this so many times together, it doesn’t take long for them to pull the rosters together. Despite that, though, Maedhros still keeps shuffling the parchment pieces around, not quite looking up at Saelwen across the desk.

Saelwen has known Maedhros too long to not be able to tell when something is on his mind. “You’ve had something on your mind all afternoon,” she says, leaning back in her chair. “What is it?”

Maedhros’ lips twitch in that way she knows means he is trying not to grimace. “If you- if you want time to think about what you’re going to do now,” he says, slowly like forcing the words out is hurting him, “then I understand.”

Saelwen stares at him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

She’s pretty sure she knows what he’s talking about, but she’s hoping that he’ll get what she means and leave it alone.

Of course, she also knows Maedhros too well to think he’ll back down. He sighs, setting the parchment down and meeting her gaze. “I promised you,” he says, his voice heavy. “I promised you I wouldn’t-”

Saelwen groans. “No. Stop. You kept that promise, Maedhros. We’re not at war. Nobody died apart from Thingol, and from everything I understand you had little to do with that at all compared to his own incompetence.” She gestures at Himring around her. “We have the most complete peace I have ever seen in my lifetime. Stop being foolish.”

Maedhros looks taken aback. “Still-”

Saelwen cuts him off. “The greatest regret that I could ever have is to know that I had time and I, a fool, wasted it.” She levels Maedhros with a look. “Remember that? Remember when I told you to just fucking go for Fingon, that there was no point to despair if there was still something you could do about it?”

Maedhros arches a brow. “Are you going to tell me again?”

“Yes,” Saelwen says shortly. “And again, until you get it into your head that I am not angry at you, that I am not- that you have not disappointed me somehow. Did we get close? Yes. Did you cross a line that I believed should not be crossed? No.” She levels Maedhros with a look. “When it mattered, you held. When it mattered, you were right.”

Maedhros is silent for a long moment, and then drops his head into his hands. “I’m sorry,” he says, his voice muffled. “That was insulting, wasn’t it?”

“Only a little, and I know you didn’t intend it,” Saelwen replies with a laugh. “I do want some time off, though, whilst we’re here in Himring and there’s space for it.”

Maedhros waves his hand. “Of course. I’m sure Aegil will appreciate it. Just sort it with Gwedhron so I have at least one of you around for most of the time, but however you would like to work it is fine with me.”

Saelwen grins. “Excellent. I’ll go find him now, then, and if I’m late to dinner then he can take the blame.”

“Please do not send your wife after Gwedhron, I do need him,” Maedhros says, but she can see he is fighting a smile. “He’s in the main office, I think.” He waves a hand at her. “Go on, then. Let me know when you’ll be back in.”

Saelwen dips her head to him. “My King.”

Maedhros’ huff of exasperated laughter follows her as she leaves.

Gwedhron is in the main office, judging by the rustling of parchment and the slightly toneless humming coming through the crack in the door. Saelwen pushes it open. “Gwedhron? I wanted to talk to you about work rosters for the two- what are you doing?”

Gwedhron looks up from the open fire roaring in the hearth. “Oh, Saelwen,” he says. He sets down the parchment scrolls in his hands. “Work rosters?”

“Maedhros wants one of us with him for the next few weeks, but beyond that we need to work it out ourselves,” Saelwen says. “But that’s- why are you burning parchment?”

Gwedhron looks down at the scrolls. “Oh, these are the Doriath plans,” he says. “I talked to Maedhros about them a few weeks ago. He said we wouldn’t need them anymore, so…” He gestures at the fire. “It’s a practical solution. Saves on wood for this evening as well.”

Saelwen stares at him. “Why- who wrote these in the first place?”

Gwedhron frowns at her. “I did. And Maedhros, to an extent, but it’s my hand. He asked for solutions, so I gave him a wide range of possibilities.” He gestures at the scrolls again. “They’re not needed now, they’re just taking up space, so I might as well get rid of them.”

“And I suppose it helps that they’re the types of plans that now might become politically difficult if read by the wrong people,” Saelwen says.

Gwedhron shrugs. “Two birds with one stone, I suppose.” He picks up another handful of scrolls, picking off the wax and ribbons, and then turns to the fire. “What did you want with the rosters? I’m happy to take the next three weeks if you want that time off. I know your wife will be happy with that.”

Saelwen eyes him. “That’s nice of you,” she says. “Why?”

Gwedhron gives her an amused look. “I know we don’t get on, but I can be nice to you. When I want to be.”

Saelwen arches a brow. “Usually you have an ulterior motive for it,” she says. She frowns. “Unless you’re feeling guilty.”

That makes Gwedhron stop and stare at her. “Guilty?” he asks. “Why- what possible reason could I have for feeling guilty? Unless you’ve made up something that I haven’t actually done.”

Saelwen scoffs. “We came incredibly close to war, just a few weeks ago,” she says. “And it didn’t escape me how eager you were for one. To finally show the Doriathrim their place, maybe?” She gestures at the plans. “Enough that you wrote all of those.”

Gwedhron frown deepens. “Maedhros asked for them, I delivered. Now they’re not needed, I’m getting rid of them. As he asked. I don’t see where guilt comes into any of it.” He tips his head to one side. “Unless it’s yours, and not mine?”

Saelwen can feel the snappy retort bubbling up in her chest. She grabs it and holds on tight, clawing it back from her tongue. “We didn’t go to war with Doriath,” she says instead. “Maedhros made the right choice.”

“Yes,” Gwedhron says slowly. “I know. I was also there.” He’s still frowning at her. “Are you trying to go somewhere with this?”

Saelwen sighs, and jumps up to sit on top of one of the side tables. “We came close to war,” she says again. “Doesn’t that…I don’t know, doesn’t that worry you?”

Gwedhron goes to shrug, and then stops. He is silent for a moment. “No,” he says eventually. “Not beyond the usual worry of arms and tactics and decisions that would have had to be made, and how many I could make before the first blood so that it was easier.” A small smile curls his lips. “And the worry about Maedhros, but that one never goes away and is never new.”

Saelwen shakes her head. “I don’t- how?” she asks. “I knew Maedhros would make the right decision, I knew he wouldn’t embroil us in what you and I both know would end up as a slaughter- don’t make that face, if you made invasion plans then you must have analysed the Doriathrim forces and come to similar conclusions to myself. We would have routed them.”

Gwedhron nods. “Probably. Good for us. Even the worst casualty calculations I had done put us only at around forty percent lost.” He picks up another scroll and feeds it to the flame, watching it catch. “Why all the questions, Saelwen? Concerns about your own loyalties?”

Saelwen bristles. “Don’t you dare,” she snaps.

Gwedhron gives her a flat stare. “You’re the one asking me about whether I was worried, when this started heading towards a bloodier outcome than you were apparently comfortable with,” he says.

Saelwen shakes her head. “Did you not, even once , worry that Maedhros might steer us away from the right path?” she asks. “I trusted him not to, I did, but I still considered it! I still thought about what exactly how bad it could be, and how I might lean on Maedhros to push him back onto the right path. But you, you’re so blindingly loyal to him that you apparently never considered the path he’s on could be anything but right?”

Gwedhron gestures at Himring around them. “We’re here, aren’t we?” he asks. “We have the third Silmaril back, we have the oath fulfilled- I know that doesn’t mean anything to you like it does to me, I know you don’t get it-”

“Oh, that’s fucking rich coming from you,” Saelwen snarls. “Which one of us was there after Thangorodrim? Which one of us broke through the lines to follow him in the Galad Lain?”

Gwedhron’s eyes go dark. “I died cutting that path for you, don’t you dare be ungrateful or tell me that you have done more than me.” His lip curls. “You didn’t even notice it was me, did you?”

She hadn’t. The cycles are so blurred in her memory. Faces are so hard to remember, even on the cycles that will forever stand out in her mind. “That was- that was you?” she asks. “I don’t- I don’t even remember it.”

Gwedhron stares her down. “I don’t have any guilt over doing my job ,” he says, his voice stone. “For doing what my King- and he was my King well before he was ever yours- asked of me. Now he has asked for something different, and so I oblige. As I will always do.” He picks up the last scrolls and tosses them onto the hearth, kicking one back in as it tries to roll free. “Have you got a problem with that?”

Saelwen stares at him for a long moment. “It’s disconcerting that so much of you is tied to him,” she says.

Gwedhron fully flinches. “Thank you,” he says flatly. “I hadn’t noticed. Have we moved onto the portion of this where you belittle me now? If you can get it done quickly so I can go and eat before the hall gets too full, that would be appreciated.”

Saelwen holds up her hands. “Sorry, I didn’t mean it like that,” she says. “I- maybe you should take the time off first. Aegil won’t mind.”

“Don’t pretend to pity me,” Gwedhron says, his voice eerily flat. “And don’t anger your wife just for the sake of it.” He reaches out and picks up his gloves from the desk, and heads for the door.

“Gwedhron-”

“I know I hang probably too much on Maedhros,” Gwedhrons says, stopping abruptly just before the door. He turns around to look at Saelwen. “I know. I’ve done it for far too long to stop anytime soon, and I will keep doing it, because he keeps rewarding my trust, and he will keep doing so.” He meets Saelwen’s gaze without flinching. “You were worried about him going astray, and cautioned him as such. I wasn’t, and didn’t. We’ve both ended up in the exact same place, haven’t we?”

Saelwen just stares at him. Gwedhron shrugs, and pulls open the door. “Enjoy your three weeks,” he says. “I’ll let Maedhros know on my next shift. Tell Aegil I said hello.”

He leaves without looking back. Saelwen sits there for a while longer, watching parchment crumble into ash, and then goes to gather her things. It’s past time she went home.

0-o-0-o-0

“Love?”

Saelwen pulls the front door shut behind her. She can hear noises from further inside their house, what sounds like cooking from the kitchen, but she makes sure to toe off her dusty boots and leathers before heading further inside. Aegil's shoes are already lined up next to the door, the faint smell of burnt hoof lingering in the hallway. Saelwen wrinkles her nose, a force of habit even though she's had so long to get used to the smell. “Aegil?”

“Kitchen!”

Saelwen lets the last months shed from her shoulders as she heads further into their home. Aegil is at the stove, stirring a pot of something that smells divine. Saelwen takes a moment to watch her muscles bunching, her dark skin gleaming with sweat from the heat of the fire within the stove. “Sorry, I would have come to you in the hallway but this-” and she shoves at the pot- “started sticking. Give me one minute to salvage it.”

Saelwen laughs, and crosses the kitchen flagstones to wrap her arms around her wife and lean up against her back. “Hello,” she says, pressing a kiss to the nape of her neck. “That smells lovely.”

“There's bread resting, and I attempted some roasted greens,” Aegil says, twisting to press a kiss to Saelwen's lips. “Attempted. You might want to try and rescue them.”

Saelwen just tightens her grip around Aegil's waist, running her hand over her stomach. “In a moment. I missed you.”

Aegil pauses, and then sets the spoon down. She twists around in Saelwen's arms, reaching up to cup her cheeks. “You look tired, love,” she says, her voice softening. “Was it hard?”

Saelwen drops the weight of her head into her wife's hands, and just breathes. “Questions that never got answered,” she murmurs. “And it's good that they didn't, that I never had to make that choice, but I…” She shrugs. “It was a little close. I don't know.”

“Love?”

Saelwen sighs. “I know Maedhros would not have led us astray,” she says. “I trust him. But I- I did wonder what might happen, how the Oath might tug at him, what would happen if the wrong people whispered too loudly in his ear or something went wrong that made him forget to be the General for a moment, and I-” She bites at her lip. “Does that make me unloyal to him?”

Aegil blinks. “Love, that is loyalty. Ensuring that he does the right thing, being prepared to make sure of it- what's more loyal than that?”

Saelwen shakes her head. “Gwedhron didn't even consider the same worries that I had.”

“Gwedhron has tied so much of himself to Lord Maedhros that to consider such things would probably hurt him far more than he would ever care to,’ Aegil replies. “He's blindingly loyal. Good, that's what you need in a guard. He will put Lord Maedhros above all else, without a single question. But Lord Maedhros also needs his captain just as much.” She gives Saelwen a gentle shake. “He needs someone to worry about these things. That is part of your loyalty to him.”

Saelwen sighs, and drops her head to rest in the crook of her wife's neck. “I know,” she mutters. “I do. I'm just…I'm just tired.”

Aegil hums. “Well, you're home now, and you didn't have to choose like that, and now you won't ever, from what I can tell.” She presses a kiss to Saelwen's forehead. “You're tired, and you have that pinch in your brow that means you've been arguing unnecessarily with Gwedhron again-”

“It wasn't unnecessary,” Saelwen mutters.

Aegil laughs. “Of course. But either way, let's eat, and have a few glasses of the nice wine I've been saving for a proper occasion, and then go to bed. How does that sound?”

“Perfect,” Saelwen says. As always, the longer she spends within their home, with her wife, the more the worries and weights begin to lift off her shoulders and dissipate into the air, leaving room for better things. And speaking of better things, she leans up to kiss Aegil. “I have three weeks off, as well, and I think things are going to be quiet now, quieter than we might have ever seen before. So we have plenty of time.”

Aegil quirks a brow. “Time for what?”

Saelwen reaches up to entwine their hands together and then brings them down between them. Aegil's knuckles press up against her stomach. “Well?”

Aegil's face lights up. “Yes!” she says quickly. “Yes, of course, of course , I would love nothing more!” She leans in to kiss Saelwen, firm and fierce. “Yes please,” she whispers against her lips.

Saelwen is smiling too widely to form words. She just kisses her back, and the next few minutes are spent with her wife in her arms and all thoughts of anything else scrubbed from her mind.

“I love you,” Aegil says against her lips. “So much.”

“Love you too,” Saelwen replies. “I'm so excited to- wait, do you smell burning?”

Chapter Text

Maedhros watches from Himring’s walls as Azaghal and his retinue approach. The wind buffets the yellow and gold banners, howling through the battlements, but the ponies that Maedhros has secretly always been so fond of despite them only just reaching his chest just plant their feet and keep climbing up the switchbacks to the gate. He can make out Azaghal, riding at the head of his retinue as he usually does, and what looks like one of his children riding behind him as well. Azaghal looks up, spotting Maedhros on the battlements above the gate, and raises a hand in greetings. Even from this distance, Maedhros can see his wide smile.

“Copper-Top!” Azaghal roars as he rides into the courtyard and dismounts. His beard has some grey in it now, but there is plenty of strength in his grip as he grasps Maedhros’ outstretched hand in greetings and nearly pulls him off his feet. “Congratulations,” Azaghal says, his voice dropping low under the bustle of the courtyard. “I knew you would triumph.”

Maedhros shakes his head. “It wasn’t me, this time,” he says. “But that is a longer tale, out of the cold and the wind.” He grins at Azaghal. “The mead is hot, and Gwedhron brought down a stag yesterday whilst we were out, if you’d care to join?”

Azaghal grins back. “Why Copper-Top, I would be delighted.”

Dinner is a loud and raucous affair, as it always is when Azaghal comes to Himring. The main hall is packed with as many people as can fit at the long tables, Noldor and Dwarves intermingled, and before long a few of Maedhros’ people whom Maedhros knows have friends amongst Azaghal’s retinue are up and dragging some of the Dwarves into a hastily-cleared space on the floor. The musicians start up a fast-paced jig, and Maedhros sits back and watches the chaos unfold.

“So,” Azaghal says as two people collide with each other and spill across the floor. “I have heard the story of what happened, of course, and Curufin wrote to me only a few weeks ago, but I haven’t heard it from you.” He gestures at Maedhros with his tankard. “Tell me, Copper-Top, how you managed to pull this one off?”

Maedhros ducks his head with a wry laugh. “I nearly didn’t, Az,” he says quietly. “If I’m honest, I think I nearly fucked this whole thing up.” He looks over at him. “Tyelpë and Lómion deserve all the credit for this.”

Azaghal hums. “Curufin told me you would say that,” he says. “He also told me to smack you around the head if you’re still being an idiot, but I’ll save that for when we’re not in front of all of our people and accidentally cause an incident.” He nudges Maedhros. “Think about the war you already stopped a thousand times over, not the one you maybe strayed a little close to because of how much you love your family.”

Maedhros gives him a look. “Curufin told you to say that, didn’t he?”

Azaghal just laughs. “When are Fingon and the little one coming here?” he asks. “If we’re saving the full story for later, when we’ve both had considerably much more to drink and are back in your study.”

“Next week,” Maedhros replies. “We wanted to come together, but Fingon had some last minute court cases to deal with, and he didn’t just want to leave them to Lómion alone.” He smiles into his mead. “Ereinion is growing up so fast. I think the last time you saw him he wasn’t even walking yet, and now I’m afraid to turn my back for even a moment lest he disappear on a new adventure.”

“Oh, that reminds me,” Azaghal says. “I have a gift for him. Not here,” he adds when Maedhros glances around. “It’s in the stables.”

“Az. Tell me you didn’t.”

“Only the best for your son, Copper-Top,” Azaghal says with a laugh. “She’s a sweet filly. He’ll adore her.”

“Oh, I’m not worried about that,” Maedhros says. “I’m worried I won’t be able to get him out of the stables without screaming and crying. He’ll beg us to sleep in the stall with her, I know he will, and then Fingon will give in to him and I will have to stay up all night to make sure Gil doesn’t get trodden on.”

Azaghal just laughs. “But he’ll be happy.”

They end up, as they usually tend to, in Maedhros’ rooms, a plate of cold venison and tankards of ale between them. “So,” Azaghal says expectantly.

Maedhros holds up one hand. “Firstly, Azaghal, I want to apologise. No, I do, and I should. Some of your people died because of this.”

Azaghal shakes his head. “Some of my people died because Thingol believed them to be thieves, and because fear and terror can make people do terrible things. Neither of those are your fault.”

“I asked you to send one of your people, when Thingol asked for artisans,” Maedhros reminds him.

“And I would have done it anyway,” Azaghal points out. “Don’t try and add this one to your shoulders, Copper-Top. I am the Lord of my people, and I am responsible for them, not you. You know that if the situation was reversed, you would feel the same.”

Maedhros winces. “Sorry,” he gets out. “Have you had word from Doriath, then?”

Azaghal nods. “We are negotiating weregild. Thingol killed a number of my people, but my people, and that of Nogrod, wounded Thingol. They possibly killed him, though that has not yet been agreed. And before you say anything , no, you cannot offer to help pay it. You cannot be lenient in our trading, either you or Caranthir. They were my people, and thus my responsibility.”

Maedhros wants to argue, but he can see that glint in Azaghal’s eye which means it would be a bad idea. “I am pleased for you, Copper-Top,” Azaghal says. “I know oaths do not mean the same to me and mine as it does to you and yours, but I do understand a little of it. To have your oath fulfilled…I cannot imagine the weight that has been lifted from you.”

Maedhros takes a long drink from his tankard. “I cannot even begin to describe what it was like,” he says. “When Tyelpë grasped the Silmaril…it sounds ridiculous, but for a moment it was almost like I could see everything they had seen. My father, my- my mother, all the events that led us here.” He shakes his head. “It becomes harder and harder to remember properly. Memories of memories, more than anything, I think.”

Azaghal hums. “Gems, jewels, they have their own stories imbued into them by their crafters,” he says. His hand goes to one of the strands of beads in his hair, alternating gold and some dark, gleaming stone. “I have seen you use the Silmarils before. It does not surprise me that one made by your father would not only remember its story, but be able to share it.”

Maedhros inclines his head. “I suppose,” he says. “I do- I do wonder how much he has seen of this, and what he thinks of it.” He takes another long drink. “For all his many, many faults, my father loved us dearly. I’d like to think that he is happy, seeing the oath fulfilled.”

“I think almost any father would rejoice to see their children happy, and free of a burden that has long plagued them,” Azaghal says. “Even if yours didn’t believe it to be a burden when he placed it on your shoulders. I think he would be happy for you.”

“And if he isn’t, I am,” Maedhros says, the drink having loosened his tongue. “That’s enough, isn’t it?”

Azaghal smiles at him. “I think it is,” he says. “And I know you are already a wonderful father to your boy. It doesn’t matter much what your own father thinks, compared to that.”

Maedhros raises his tankard, and Azaghal leans forwards to clink his own against Maedhros’. “Congratulations once again, Copper-Top,” Azaghal says, “May our children know only the peace we have fought so hard for.”

Maedhros smiles back at him. “I’ll drink to that.”

0-o-0-o-0

Saelwen peeks around the door into Maedhros’ study. “Have you got a moment, my Lord?”

Maedhros looks up from his desk. “Of course, come on in,” he says, waving her in through the door. “I thought you weren’t back on duty until tomorrow?”

“I’m not,” Saewlen replies, coming into the room proper. “But I just need to talk to you for a few moments, if you’ve got the time.”

Maedhros frowns. “Of course. Have a seat, if you want. Is everything alright?”

Saelwen can’t help the broad smile that comes over her face as she sits across from Maedhros at the desk. “More than. I just wanted to let you know that I’ll need some time off in a few months.”

Maedhros’ frown deepens. “Of course, you can have however much time you need, but- can I ask why? Did you decide you wanted to take a step back, which of course I understand, I-”

“Stop it,” Saelwen says fondly. “I’m not resigning. I can still do most of the job for a while, but soon…well, my armour will stop fitting, and I have to be much more careful.” Her hand goes to her stomach, and the same giddy excitement flutters through her that has been growing and growing for the past week. “I’m not just looking after myself now.”

Maedhros’ jaw drops open. “You’re- Saelwen . You’re- you and Aegil…”

Saelwen nods. She feels like her smile might split her face in two. “We’re having a baby.”

“Oh, Saelwen .” Maedhros gets up from behind his desk, and before she knows it Saelwen is bundled up in an embrace so tight she can hardly breathe. “I am so happy for you,” Maedhros says, and when he pulls back there is a beaming smile on his face. “Of course, you can have as much time as you want- we’ll replace you from the patrols, of course, I can re-write the rosters and it’s quiet enough that we won’t suffer too much from your absence. Are you going to stay here, or go to Barad Eithel? You should think about travelling before the winter sets in, I can have a carriage come from Barad Eithel for you, you shouldn’t be on a horse all day-”

“My Lord!” Saelwen says. “Maedhros! I can sort all of this myself, and we have plenty of time.” She laughs. “I’m pregnant, not incapacitated, at least not yet. It will be months before I need to take a proper step back. For now, we’ll just continue as normal, though I will be taking myself off the hunting parties and patrols, just in case.”

Maedhros nods. “Of course, of course. Anything you and Aegil need, you only have to ask.” He pauses. “In fact-”

Luckily, Saelwen has come prepared. She pulls a folded piece of parchment out of her pocket. “This is a list of all the things you are not allowed to gift myself, Aegil, or the child,” she says, pressing it into Maedhros’ chest. “Please become familiar with that. I am going to go tell Gwedhron he’s getting a temporary promotion.”

Maedhros laughs. “I will study it intently,” he promises. “Please don’t torture Gwedhron too much, else he’ll be completely unbearable.”

“I make no promises,” Saelwen says. She starts heading for the door.

“Saelwen?”

She turns to see Maedhros smiling at her. There are tears in his eyes. “I am so happy for you,” he says again. “Having a child is the best thing that has ever happened to me. I think it will be for you too.”

Saelwen smiles back, one hand going to her stomach. “I know it will,” she replies. “Thank you, Maedhros. For everything.”

0-o-0-o-0

Maedhros feels Fingon long before he sees the first banners of silver and blue approaching out of the evening mist. Dearheart , he hears in his head as he leaves his study to head for the gates, signalling to the guards outside in the courtyard to begin readying for their arrival. We’re a league away from the beginning of the foothills proper. Ereinion is holding up well, but he is getting tired.

He won’t be tired when he finds out the gift Azaghal has brought him, Maedhros replies. He shows Fingon the pony in its stall, pulls out the memory from a few days ago. Unless we keep the surprise for tomorrow?

Silver and blue ripples with amusement. Fingon pushes through a brief image of Ereinion, sat in front of him on his horse and beginning to droop with the exhaustion of spending an entire day in the saddle. Perhaps we will try and keep it quiet until tomorrow, else he will definitely cry when we tell him he cannot sleep in the stable with her.

Good idea, beloved , Maedhros replies. He heads up the stairs and onto the top battlements. Silver glints to the west, the tips of spears and flutter of silver banners. I can see you now, he tells Fingon. I’ll have the fires lit for hot water and the beds turned down. Dinner and then bed for Ereinion, I think. We might have to pretend to go to sleep as well until he’s down, and then reconvene with Azaghal.

I don’t think it will take long, Fingon replies, amused. Go see to whatever you need to see to. I’ll see you very soon.

Himring has always been Maedhros’, and never Fingon’s, but it does warm something in his chest when the people array in the courtyard as the word spreads, when blue and red banners that are well-kept and cared for unfurl the moment Fingon rides through the gates of the fortress. He knows that inside the fires will be roaring and the water will be hot and waiting for them.

Fingon dismounts, gently pulling Ereinion down after him, and then turns to Maedhros. “Sorry we’re late, dearheart,” he says with a smile.

“Welcome back to Himring, beloved,” Maedhros says, leaning in to kiss him, and then reaching down to lift Ereinion up into his arms. “And hello to you, Gil. How was your ride?”

“Long, Atta,” Ereinion says, burrowing his head into Maedhros’ shoulder. “My legs are sore.”

“Well, we can’t have that,” Maedhros says, pressing a kiss to his son’s temple. “There’s some hot water waiting for you to have a wash, and dinner, and a nice warm bed. How does that sound?”

Ereinion whines against his neck. “I want to see Himring,” he says.

“Oh, this old fortress has been standing for hundreds of years,” Maedhros says. Fingon hands his horse off to a waiting groom and puts a hand on the small of Maedhros’ back, leading them towards the doors to the keep. “I think it might just be able to stand one more night. How about tonight, I’ll tell you the story of how I defended this fortress, and then tomorrow morning, after you’ve slept, we can go out on the battlements and you can see the marks on the walls yourself.”

“But only once you’ve slept,” Fingon says. “It won’t be as fun if you’re tired, Gil, and we’re losing the light for you to see everything properly.”

Ereinion scrunches up his face, Maedhros able to feel it against his shoulder, but relents. “Azaghal is inside, but I told him not to greet us,” Maedhros says to Fingon, switching to Khuzdul so that Ereinion won’t understand him. “Gil would only want to stay up to see him. We’ll put him to bed first, and then go to dinner?”

“I only understand about two thirds of that, but it’s enough,” Fingon replies. “The usual rooms, I take it?”

“Gil is in with us, I’ve had a bed put in our room,” Maedhros replies. “For the first few nights, just because he’s in an unfamiliar place. But I don’t think he’s going to be hard to put to bed.”

Ereinion is almost limp in his arms, worn out from a day of riding. It’s more of a struggle to get him washed and eating dinner than it is to tuck him into bed. Maedhros only makes it a third of the way through a heavily edited version of the Dagor Bragollach at Himring before Ereinion is asleep beside him, soft breaths barely stirring his braids. He slides out of the bed, holding his breath as Ereinion stirs, and then lets it go in a rush as he settles.

Fingon comes up and wraps an arm around his waist. “Dinner?”

“I’ll have Gwedhron stay on the door in case he wakes up,” Maedhros says, leaning into Fingon for a moment. “Be warned. Azaghal is on a mission to drink all of the ale we have here.”

Fingon hums as they quietly slip out of the room. “And I suppose you’re on a mission to match him?” he asks. “You can sleep on the sofa if you’re going to do that tonight, and I’ll have the bed to myself.”

“Probably more comfortable for me than getting yet another elbow to the face, or your cold feet on my shins,” Maedhros replies, and then ducks out of the way of Fingon as he swats at him. He takes off down the hallway with a laugh, Fingon running behind him.

0-o-0-o-0

Ereinion’s feet make little drumbeats against Fingon’s collarbones where he’s sat on his shoulders. The wind picks up again, sweeping up to the battlements where they stand, and Fingon feels Ereinion grip onto his hair as the wind buffets against him. Gwedhron is behind him, hovering nervously and seemingly half-ready to snatch Ereinion out of the air and take him down onto solid ground, but Fingon can feel Ereinion’s full-belly laughs as the wing tugs at him, and motions at him to calm down.

“You can see forever ,” Ereinion says. “Look at the mountains, Atto!”

He’s pointing, Fingon guesses, at the distant snow-capped peaks of Angband. “You can, Gil,” Maedhros says from just ahead of them. “Why do you think that helps?”

Ereinion is silent for a long moment. “I could see you and your Atto coming from a league away, yesterday,” Maedhros says. “I built this fortress to keep people safe. What else do you think would be useful to see from here?”

Fingon half-listens to a heavily edited version of the Dagor Bragollach as they walk the battlements, Maedhros pointing out where the orcs came from and how the fortress walls are built to repel them like waves on a rock. It’s a story he knows well, though the one he knows is far darker and harder to hear. Ereinion occasionally tries to lean over to look over the walls, and Fingon only has to catch him once as he slips and nearly makes Gwedhron shout in worry.

The plains to the north stretch out endlessly in the morning sun. The mountains are dark smudges on the horizon, their snow-capped tips glinting in the sunlight slowly rising over them. He can make out the dust rising from what must be a caravan on its way to Echad Methren, the once-camp now a town in its own right on the plains outside Angband’s empty halls. A herd of sheep slowly moves across the rolling hills only a couple leagues away. He can just see the dogs darting around them, pushing them tightly together and towards smoke rising from what must be a shepherd’s hut tucked somewhere in the low hills out of sight.

He knows why Maedhros built Himring. He knows the desperation that went into these walls, the burning desire to draw the darkness onto itself to the point that it was nearly overrun. He knows Maedhros took the east to hold because it would keep Fingon safe, and Himring was built to do that, and only that.

He watches Maedhros now, face lit up as he talks to his son and tells him the stories of these stones, Ereinion bright and curious and tugging at Fingon’s hair only a few times to keep his balance, laughing as the wind whips up once again. He lets go of Fingon and holds his arms out, small braids fluttering in the soaring winds. “Atta, Atta, look!”

Maedhros laughs, resting up against the battlements gouged with sword and fire, and reaches out to take Ereinion off Fingon’s shoulders. He stands Ereinion up on the very top of the battlements, holding tight to his waist. “Stretch your arms out, Gil,” he says. “Lean into the wind, there you go. You’re flying!”

Ereinion laughs, clear as silver bells, and Fingon cannot help but join in.

finis